


just one thing I need

by Haepherion



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mark and Sean are both slightly closeted in this, Miscommunication, Recreational Drinking, Self-Worth Issues, Septiplier AWAY!, Slow Burn, both of them don't think they deserve the other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-09-26 23:18:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17150945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haepherion/pseuds/Haepherion
Summary: Jack was pretty sure that the way Mark had stared up at the inky sky last night, drunk and dopey and happy, had shifted something in him. It was one of the only things that survived Jack’s drunk memories of that night, and now it was stamped in Jack’s memory, possibly forever.---Or, the one where Jack and Mark get stuck in Philly for Christmas.





	1. Dec 23

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas, folks!

Somewhere off to the left, his phone vibrated, sharp and insistent. He shivered underneath the covers, feeling oversensitive, strange colors playing behind his eyelids. Though he couldn’t remember what he’d dreamt, he had a strange sense memory of snow, of warm breaths, of a pleasant sort of dizziness. He imagined this was how champagne might feel, if it were a person. Dizzily golden, hazy and fleeting.

For a disorientating moment, Jack couldn’t remember where he was. He cracked an eye open, his cottony brain taking in the musty red blinds, rays of daylight pushing into the dim room. The starchy covers he was huddled under smelled vaguely stale, like they were power washed with industrial strength lemon-scented cleaner at some point. Definitely not the soft flannel ones he kept on his bed back home. His skin itched under these, and he was so chilly he could barely feel his toes.

Jack yawned and winced, taking in the small, kitschy room, the queen sized bed he was curled up in, the huge flatscreen TV, the glossy desk in the corner that held a pamphlet of advertisements for local restaurants and stores.  

Right. He was in a hotel. Post--con. The pounding in his head that usually warned of a migraine was actually a hangover. All of these things made sense now. This type of thing happened at least once, sometimes twice, and occasionally up to three times a year.

On the nightstand his phone buzzed again, twice in quick succession. Jack wanted to ignore it, or preferably chuck it into the furthest corner of the room _._ He reached out blearily, feeling around blindly on the night stand until he found the familiar shape.

There was a text from Mark. Well, multiple texts.

It was freezing and not even seven in the morning yet, and somehow he already had texts from Mark.

Jack groaned, setting his phone back down on the small night stand. Now that he was out of the haze of sleep, everything felt sore and stiff and cold, like his limbs had frozen overnight and were just starting the painful process of thawing. Being Irish apparently hadn’t made him immune to any of the effects of terrible hangovers.

He ran his tongue along the edge of his teeth, cotton-mouthed and tacky with dehydration. It smelled like a small mammal had crawled into his mouth and died there overnight.

He shivered, still not ready to wake as he burrowed deeper under the covers, like maybe he could sink in deep enough for the mattress to swallow him whole. The room felt off kilter. Jack felt like he was floating maybe, his brain hovering somewhere just a few inches away from his actual body.

_Buzz._

Jack squinted under the darkness of the covers.

Last night, had they gone to two, or was it three bars? There were dark booths, sticky coasters, expensive beers. Expressive eyes, a sly smile and a wild laugh. Only bits and pieces of memory stood out to him, the rest lost somewhere between drunkenness and dreams.

His phone buzzed again, insistent. Jack could feel the buzz vibrate in his _teeth_ , like an electric shock to the head. Shit like this always happened when he was hungover, his body a live wire to sights and sounds. Everything was too much.

He took a breath, and unbidden, felt a strange rush of deja vu. They’d stayed out for a long time, until the sky turned lilac as they stumbled against each other, trying to hail down a cab.

Outside in the early mornings of not-quite dawn, they’d huddled against each other. From there, his memory was spotty...he remembered trying not to fall asleep, the sharp winter wind cutting against his cheeks... replaced by a warm breath against his ear, whispering for him to stay awake. He shivered, for a completely different reason other than cold this time. _Had he just dreamt that part, or was it real?_

_Buzz!_

Jack pressed fingers against his temple, breathing through the stabbing pain behind his eyeballs. An aspirin or a coffee. He needed one or the other, stat. His entire brain was one giant, ashy chalkboard, and every ten seconds, a fork scraped down it.  

“Fuck,” Jack muttered, reaching over to grab his phone. He squinted against the brightness of the screen, fumbling until he could dim it down to tolerable levels.

 

**Markipoo  
** Goooooooood morning!!  
Or should i say  
WAPUUSH TOP O’ THE MORNIN’ TO YA LADDIE  
My NAmE iS JAcK sePTiC EYe

 

Jack groaned. His headache gave a cursory pulse in complaint; reading the texts in loud, boisterous caps. Everything hurt.

 

**Markipoo  
** Have you checked your flight status yet?  
Because uh  
I’m grounded. It snowed a lot last night. bad sky = no fly

 

It took a full second for Jack to decode what the fuck Mark was saying, and when he did, Jack suddenly felt ten times more awake.

It started snowing last night while they were walking out of the last bar, swirling gently at first, then harder and harder, until the world around them was a snowglobe. They had to walk the last three blocks, because the cab they were in couldn’t drive through the fast-piling snow on the streets. 

Jack remembered sticking out his tongue out and looking at the dark inky sky, trying to catch a snowflake. Mark did the same thing, eyes closed, face turned towards the stars. How Jack had wanted to take a picture because Mark looked like a little kid, cheeks pink with cold, staring up at the sky in impish wonder.

Jack shook his head, hard, and swallowed down the sour bile that pooled in his mouth at the motion. _Note to self: moving your head around feels like your fucking skull will detach._

With one eye squinted shut, Jack focused his attention back on his phone, navigating over to his email app, impatient as the app stalled and crashed twice.

The wifi in the hotel was absolute shite--he and Mark had recorded a few minutes of them doing various stupid Snapchat filters before heading down to the panels the night before, and neither of them had been able to upload anything to YouTube, or any other social media platform. They’d even paid a few extra bucks to get faster internet speed, but it hadn’t helped.

It irked Jack to no end that he wasn’t able to tweet, or upload, or respond to the flood of kind messages and comments from fans who’d met him the last two days. It was literally his job to respond and interact, and he couldn’t even do that.

“Fucking wifi,” Jack muttered, going into settings and enabling cellular data. It was going to be expensive as hell because he wasn’t on an American cell phone plan, but it was an emergency. If his flight was cancelled--

All at once, two dozen or so emails loaded, one after the other, stalling the app again. At this rate, his data plan was going to rest in fucking pieces by the time all of the messages were loaded.

Jack scrolled, ignoring notification emails to look for--there. A new email from American Airlines, sent within the last three hours, with the headline: FLIGHT RESCHEDULED - REBOOKING OPTIONS AVAILABLE, CLICK TO SEE MORE

_Fuck._

This was bad. This was bad for a lot of reasons, not the least of which meant that he _definitely_ wouldn’t be home in time for Christmas. This meant he’d be breaking the tradition he had with Mark.

He would have to say goodbye.

Jack never said goodbye.

It started as an accident, the first time. They were in an elevator after one of Jack’s first conventions, and he didn’t want to make things awkward by standing in the jamb and making the other passenger wait for him to finish saying goodbye. So he held out his hand, and they shook hands, and Jack awkwardly left.

Jack felt guilty about it, afterwards. Spent days (weeks) beating himself up over not giving Mark a proper goodbye. It was high up on the list of cringey moments in his life. He was certain at the time that Mark probably thought he was a giant asshole with the social skills of a hermit crab. But then the next time they were at a convention together, Jack couldn’t bring himself to give a proper goodbye, because he didn’t know how to do it without tearing up and crying like a sentimental baby. To actually open himself up and say goodbye, knowing full well that it would be _months_ before he’d be able to see Mark in person again.

So he did the same thing, intentionally. An awkward handshake, but on purpose. Cringemas throwback, right? Mark found it funny.

It was their inside joke now; on the last day of the convention, or the last time they hung out before one or the other of them had to leave, they’d stoically shake hands and purposefully not make a big hullabaloo about saying goodbye. A good old no-homo’ pat on the back between pals.

And then somehow over the years, the awkward handshake had morphed into an awkward dinner and handshake and THAT had evolved into an awkward dinner, then drinks then a handshake. Being drunk made things less awkward. And that was perfectly fine with Jack. He hated saying goodbye. He sucked at it. He hated the hollow ache of being homesick for someone. He was always so stupidly emotional leaving conventions, and leaving Mark.

But now that their flights were cancelled, it would be a dick move not to see Mark again. Which also meant that there was no way they could do their standard handshake-pat-on-the-back, which meant Jack would actually have to say goodbye sober, and that was going to be Bad.

Jack was pretty sure that the way Mark had stared up at the inky sky last night, drunk and dopey and happy, had shifted something in him. He would never be able to unsee the image of Mark looking so lovely, standing under the flickering yellow street lamps, as snow drifted down around them. It was one of the only things that survived Jack’s drunk memories of the night before, and now it was stamped in Jack’s memory, possibly forever.

 

**Markipoo  
** Heeeellllooooooo  
Do i need to go over to ur room to wake you up

 

Jack stared back down at his phone. 

He wasn’t 100% sure, but he was 98% sure that he wasn’t wearing any pants at the moment, and his breath smelled like death. He also hadn’t showered before he’d passed out. So Mark busting down his hotel room door while Jack was a rank ball of naked nastiness would be really, really bad.

Jack started typing, but before he could even send a message, there was another one from Mark.

 

**Markipoo  
**Aha! The baby boy lives. I can see your typing bubbles.

**Jacksepticeye  
**No.

**Markipoo  
**:(

**Jacksepticeye  
**I have the wrst hangover in the history of man kkind and i feel like its ur fautl

 

Jack closed his eyes, getting a little bit of reprieve against the brightness of his iPhone screen. God, was there really not an option to turn the brightness down further? Jack watched the little typing bubbles appear and disappear, before jumping in with another text.

 

**Jacksepticeye  
**No good comback? So it IS ur fault 

**Markipoo  
**Hey you did that last irish car bomb of your OWN volition! I didn’t make u do anything

 

Jack groaned. So _that’s_ why he felt like he’d been run over by a ten ton truck. He fucking hated Guinness, and a combination of Guinness AND whisky was probably the root of his current predicament.

 

**Jacksepticeye  
**Bye

**Markipoo  
**Nooooo come back! Did you get my text from earlier? About the flight?

**Jacksepticeye  
**Ya, mine’s cancelled too. But it won’t b too long rite? I mean its philly, they’ve gotta have flights comin and goin. They’ll clear out the tarmac soon

**Markipoo  
** I mean, it’s a cyclone snow storm. It’s supposed to b the worst storm since the 50s.  
Twitter said theyre grounding all flights for the next few days  
Are you so eager to lave me? :(  
leave**  
:(

**Jacksepticeye  
**Lave.

**Markipoo  
** It was a TYPO  
I have big thumbs ok!!!!!!

**Jacksepticeye  
**That’s not the biggest thing u’ve got

 

The second Jack hit send he immediately wanted to smack himself. What the fuck was he doing, sending a text like that to Mark? Jokingly flirting with each other was their thing, but they always did this shit in person, so it couldn’t be misconstrued as anything but a joke. Sure they joked about sucking each others massive dongs, slapping each other’s bulbous asses, but never in a serious way. It was so easy to misinterpret tone through text--

 

**Markipoo  
** Oooh baby, don’t you kno it ;)  
Pray tell, what IS the biggest thing i’ve got??  
;)

**Jacksepticeye  
**Ur fuckn giant head

**Markipoo  
**RUDE

 

Jack let out a sigh of relief. Bullet fuckin’ dodged, they were back on neutral territory. Easy. Casual. 

He was going to need a lot of damn coffee before he was an actual functional human being that could say things and have them not sound completely idiotic.

 

**Jacksepticeye  
**Brb need to shower this hangver away

**Markipoo  
**Think of me while u do that, boo ;)

 

Jack rolled his eyes.

***

By the time he’d showered, gotten dressed, and tamed his hair into something slightly more acceptable looking than a bird’s nest, he felt slightly better, and ready to inhale some coffee.

 

**Markipoo  
** I want breakfast  
Do you think cafes are open rn  
I want mcdonalds  
Nope, change my mind. I want waffles. nice, thicc waffles. Like, thiccer than a bowl of oatmeal wafles.  
Get food w me. You better not have already eaten breakfast  
Did u go back to sleep??

 

Jack bit down on his toothbrush to hold it in place while he typed out a response.

 

**Jacksepticeye  
**Yep. BIG breakfast, i’m eatin huge fkn waffle rite now

 

Jack hit send.

Before he could even set his phone down to finish brushing his teeth it was buzzing angrily with a Facetime request. 

Jack hit accept before he could actually consider what he was doing. On screen, a disheveled looking Mark popped up. His mop of unruly dark hair carelessly tossed to one side of his head like he’d slept on the other side all night. It made him look a little silly, like a rooster, but somehow, the look suited him.

On screen, Mark was pouting, staring at him like Jack had just told him he couldn’t have cake on his birthday.

“God, you SUCK,” Mark said, after ascertaining that Jack wasn’t in fact eating a big delicious breakfast, but had a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and white paste all around his lips.

“Gotcha,” Jack mumbled around the toothbrush in his mouth. He took it out and spit into the sink.

“Are you...did you? Did you pick up my Facetime in the middle of brushing your teeth??” Mark said, incredulous. Mark was staring at his lips. Or at least that’s what it looked like. He was probably staring at Jack’s face, but the surface of the screen was too small so it looked like he was staring at his lips.

Jack quickly stuck his head under the faucet, rinsed and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

“I don’t know, I thought it was urgent!” Jack said, voice cracking halfway through the sentence. God, he sounded so _dumb._

“Well, you’re right. It _is_ urgent. I’m hungry.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “I’m hanging up.”

“Wait, wait!”

Jack watched Mark’s eyes flick across the phone screen, reading something.

“I’m looking up some restaurants on Yelp. There’s this place that’s close enough to walk?” Mark said, as he clicked something on his phone, before closing out of the app and turning his attention back to Jack’s face.

Jack raised an eyebrow, pretending to be unamused.

“C’mon, please?”

Jack sighed, pretending to sound put-upon.

“Pleeeease? C’mon, whose dick do I have to suck to make you come to brunch with me,” Mark said. “I’ll do it. My word is my bond, I’m a man of my word. I would suck 10 dicks for a waffle.”

“Would you? Would you really? Ten massive schlongs for some sweet bread?”

“So is that a yes?” Mark said.

Jack sighed again, dramatically. Like he had to think about it. Though of course he was going to have brunch with Mark. Mark could have asked him if he wanted to go skydiving during a snowstorm with no parachute, and Jack would have said yes. Because it was Mark, and Jack would do any amount of stupid things to make Mark happy, including but not limited to eating waffles with him. _Definitely_ not limited to eating waffles with him. Which, the more he thought about it, definitely sounded like a euphemism for something.

“I guess,” Jack said, sounding as fake-reluctant as possible.

“Fuck yes. It’s called “Not Your Mother’s Waffle House.’”

“Mark...was that a “your mama” joke?”

“No, swear to God! That’s the name of the restaurant. Here, I’ll send you a link, hang on,” Mark said, focusing back on his phone.

This close to the camera, Mark looked a little cross-eyed as he stared back down at his screen. It was completely ridiculous and somehow wildly endearing. Jack’s phone pinged with the new link Mark sent him, and he clicked on it, skimming through the menu. Four stars, not bad. A few Instagram photos of people who had uploaded what their meals looked like. The waffles _did_ look pretty tasty.

“Sure,” Jack said, because it sounded less desperate than “of course,” or “yes, please,” or “how do you look so good waking up in the morning.”   

Mark beamed. Jack felt his heart stutter.

“YES, I’m in room 402. See you soon!”

And before Jack could get in a word edgewise, Mark hung up.

***

When he made it to Mark’s room fifteen minutes later, Mark wasn’t even dressed yet. Or at least, Jack hoped that was the case, because there was no way Mark would survive the frigid cold wearing a pair of grey sweatpants and a stained Pokemon t shirt that had a hole in the armpit.

“Have you just been sitting here the entire time?!”

Mark gave him a kicked puppy dog look, which was all the answer that Jack needed.

“My hair takes a LONG time to do,” Mark said plaintively. It didn’t look that much neater than before. Jack supposed it didn’t matter either way, since the floof always looked nice, no matter how tousled or nappy it was. But he wasn’t about to let Mark know that.

***

By the time they actually made it out of the hotel and out onto the snow covered streets of Philly, it was past 10am, still fairly early if Jack had anything to say about it, but the cutting wind was going a long way towards curing his hangover.

“Christ,” Jack muttered, trying to tug the collar of his peacoat higher. The snow was nearly up to their ankles, still falling from the overcast sky in swirling flakes, peppering in Mark’s black hair. The temperature itself wasn’t that bad, but the wind was unforgiving, so cold that Jack’s chest ached a little every time he breathed in.

Their shoes crunched against the fresh snow with every step, puffs of air escaping their lips into the chill. There was little traffic on the road. It was peaceful, the kind of sleepy morning that stretched on long into the afternoon. The world, quiet, turned seconds into minutes.

Jack dug his numb hands deeper into his pockets, resisting the urge to reach out and brush the snow from Mark’s hair. Mark caught his stare before he could glance away.

“You cold?” Mark said, teasing. He’d come much more prepared for the weather than Jack, in a red Canadian goose down jacket and maroon scarf, pulled up high around his neck.

“Of course, it’s fuckin’ freezing,” Jack said, sniffling. It was true--when he’d glanced at his weather app as they were leaving the hotel, it was 24 degrees fahrenheit, and that wasn’t including the windchill. He was always caught off guard by how cold it could get in America. Probably because he was used to Skyping with Mark, who lived in warm and sunny Los Angeles was.

“You’re Irish! Shouldn’t you be used to shitty freezing weather?” Mark said.

“I’d flick you off if I didn’t think my finger would freeze and fall off,” Jack muttered. He hadn’t anticipated staying longer than the weekend, and figured most of it would be spent indoors anyway. So of course the one time he didn’t think he’d need his winter coat, he’d get stuck in a city with a literal Polar Vortex sweeping through it.

Mark chuckled, bumping Jack gently with a shoulder. The sidewalks in the city were narrow from snow piling up on the sides. Walking next to each other like this, Jack was close enough to feel Mark’s body heat emanating from him in waves. Par for the course, Mark was a goddamn space heater while Jack was a step away from turning into a snowman.

There weren’t any other pedestrians on the road with them. From a distance, Jack thought he could roughly make out the shape of a roughly constructed lean to, snow resting atop the blue tarp. A homeless person’s makeshift cover against the unforgiving weather. Jack felt a pang of pity--it would be miserable not to have somewhere to go in this city, at this time of year.    

“How much further?” Jack said, the next time they stopped at a crosswalk, trying not to let his teeth chatter. It felt like his veins were slowly icing over. The city hadn’t sent out snow plows yet. A few cars inched down the street, doing their best to drive in the tire tracks of those in front of them so they wouldn’t fishtail.

The snow was up past their ankles now, and fast turning into a dirty, cold sludge. Jack could feel it melting and soaking into the bottom of his jeans. It was his last pair, which meant that either he was going to have to deal with dirty clothes until whenever he was able to schedule another flight, or see if the hotel had a laundry machine. Or maybe borrow something from Mark, though his clothes would probably be too large to fit Jack. Something about the idea warmed him.

Mark glanced over, eyebrows furrowing.

“You’re shivering. We’re pretty close I think, but...here,” Mark said, and before Jack knew what was happening, Mark unlooped his red scarf from his neck and slung it around Jack’s.

God, it was _warm._

The scarf was warm, and soft, and smelled so much like Mark that Jack was dizzy with it. His cologne was spicy and _good_ , like pine needles and mint and irish spring soap. Jack breathed in deep.

It smelled like every time Mark slung his arm around Jack’s shoulder, like every time they hugged and Jack felt warm just from being so close to him. Except now the scent was all around him, wrapped around his face, heady and close, and _oh God,_ it was like someone had poured liquid gold into his veins.

“Better?” Mark said, smiling, his breaths misting in the air, his chocolate eyes meeting Jack’s. Jack nodded. He couldn’t even think of something witty to say; the scent of Mark’s scarf had turned Jack’s brain into mush, and it’d be hilarious if it also wasn’t the most pathetic thing ever.

Jack nodded, not fully trusting his voice.

Mark glanced over at Jack with his usual dorky smile, and the sight of him grinning was nearly enough to make Jack grin too.

Lord, it was going to be a goddamn Christmas miracle if he made it through the day without making an ass of himself.

***

The diner, when they finally made it inside, was relatively empty. Only two other couples had braved the weather and were sitting at booths in the back, murmuring quietly to each other.

The diner was like something out of the 70s; red leather booths, tile checkered floor, and a jukebox in the corner. The barstool area even had a requisite drunk guy, slouched over, picking at the leftovers of what looked like a greasy omelette.

The second they stepped into the heat of the diner, Mark’s glasses started fogging up. He took them off in annoyance, waving them around in the air to try and get them to adjust to the temperature. Jack was suddenly glad he’d remembered to put in contact lenses after showering.

Jack uncoiled the scarf from around his neck, holding it out to Mark.

“Thanks,” Jack said. He almost didn’t want to give it back to Mark, it was so comfortable.

“You’ll need it later, when we go back out and you gotta protect that pasty little neck of yours,” Mark said, waving Jack off. Jack scowled at him, though there was no heat behind the gesture. He was secretly glad.

“And plus, it looks good on you,” Mark amended, and Jack had no idea how to react to that. It was a damn lie, if he’d ever heard one, because even though red was Jack’s favorite color, there wasn’t a single person he’d ever met that looked better in red than Mark.

“Liar,” Jack snorted, but left it at that.

They stomped their shoes against the welcome mat, shaking off the snow the best they could. Now that they were out from the cold, Jack could feel the unpleasantness of soggy socks and wet jeans settle in. The sooner they could finish their meals and get back to the hotel, the better.

There was only one waitress working all the tables, which made sense, considering that most places had shut down, and hardly anyone would be trying to brave a winter storm.

She gave them a friendly wave, strolling over after she dropped off a plate of pancakes to the other customers.  

“Anywhere you like,” she said, motioning for them to take their pick of empty tables and booths.

Mark looked at Jack.

“Booth.” They said, at the same time.

They meandered over to a booth on the other side of the restaurant, with a window overlooking the street outside.

Jack scooched into the booth, taking off his jacket so he could have more room to maneuver. Outside the window, the snow looked pretty, coating the rooftops of Philly in white. It gave everything an odd sense of tranquility, like maybe it was okay for the world to fall asleep for a few months. It softened the harsh angles of the skyscrapers, made everything just a little more dreamy. When it looked like this outside, Jack could understand why people believed in miracles, and love.

Jack didn’t even realize he’d zoned out until Mark waved a hand in front of his face.

“Earth to Jack?”

“Sorry,” Jack said. “Still kinda hungover.” Which was the truth. Well, part of the truth, anyway. The other part was that his chest felt a little funny, like his lungs were too big for his body. He was here in America with Mark during _Christmas_. It was like all of his wildest dreams had come true, except now that it was happening, Jack had how to act. He felt like he’d forgotten all the lines to the most important theater performance of his life.  

“Me too,” Mark said, and it took Jack a moment to remember what he’d said. Right, hangovers. He was pretty sure Mark hadn’t had nearly as much to drink last night. Jack remembered Mark saying he’d quit drinking for health reasons, though every now and again he still would drink, just in moderation.

“How long do you think the flights are going to be grounded?” Jack said.

“Dunno. Sometimes when the snow got really bad in Cincinatti, people would have to land in Indiana and take a train.”

“Well, there’s no way I can take a train back to Europe,” Jack said.

“Guess you’ll just have to stay awhile.”

“Yeah. Guess so,” Jack said.

Mark hummed, playing with one of the containers of sugar at the table, fingers nimble and quick as he spun the tiny sugar spoon on his knuckles. He was a fidgeter, like Jack, never able to sit still or shut up for too long, always kinetic, always responding and reacting and observing. That was something Jack loved about him. Mark could come off as loud and obnoxious, but he was actually very keen, picking up on things that people normally wouldn’t notice. It’s what made him a good gamer.

The waitress bustled over to them, handing them faded menus that had seen better days; the laminated plastic peeled at the corners, and the menu had typos and items crossed out with sharpie marker.

Most of the menu items listed were hearty, quintessential American things. Burgers, sandwiches, a handful of salads, some steaks, and an assortment of breakfast foods, as well as smoothies and shakes. Jack wasn’t quite sure if he was up to the task of eating anything too oily or greasy.

Mark, meanwhile, poured over the menu like it was a textbook, reading everything on the page like it was the utmost importance that he get it right.      

“You boys know what you want yet?” The waitress said, setting down two slightly grimy plastic cups of water with ice cubes, taking out a pad of pen and paper. She was cute, objectively. Big doe eyes and full lips, hair done up in a messy bun with a sharp little nose with a sterling steel loop through it. In her young 20s, most likely a college student working in the area.

“I...think we need another moment?” Jack said, mostly because sometime between getting the menu and her coming back, he’d spent half the time staring at the menu without actually reading it, and the other half staring out the window, watching the snow drift down. He was spacy on a good day--with a hangover, getting him to focus on anything for more than a few seconds was a lost cause.

“Well, just let me know when you’re ready, hon.” She smiled, before turning away.

“Know what you want yet?” Jack asked, a little lost.

Mark shrugged. “I’m getting waffles.”

Right, he’d said that before they left. Jack felt a little bad that he’d sent the waitress away instead of letting Mark order, since Mark obviously knew what he wanted from the start.

“I’m thinking pancakes.”

“I’m thinking that’s a good think.”

“Thanks,” Jack snorted.

“Anyway. That waitress was definitely flirting,” Mark said, nonchalant, unwrapping one end of his straw.  

“She was?” Jack said. He was pretty sure she was just being nice. Everyone in America was smiley and friendly. It was a thing he’d noticed, that Americans smiled more than Europeans.  

“I’m pretty sure.”

“I mean, if anything, she’d be flirting with you, Marki-I’ve got 2 million subs-plier,” Jack shot back.

Mark ripped off the paper at the end of his straw and stuck it in his mouth, blowing into it so the rest of the straw wrapper hit Jack in the face.

“Fucker,” Jack growled, wadding the straw wrapper up into a ball and tossing it--straight into Mark’s cup of water.

“BULLSEYE!”

“Fuck! Fuck you,” Mark said, sticking his fingers into the icy water to fish out the soggy paper while Jack laughed.

“It’s what you _deserve,_ ” Jack said.

“Well, so is _this,”_ Mark said flicking the soggy paper back at him. Jack narrowly dodged, moving his cup away so Mark couldn’t do anything else to it. They both started giggling at the same time--Jack tried to compose himself when he saw the waitress looking over at the commotion, making her way back towards them.

“Having fun, boys?”

“Just enough,” Mark said with a smirk. Jack glared.

“You boys know what you want?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna take #14, the Belgium waffle, no whipped cream, extra strawberries please. For the side, can I get sausage links, hash browns, and a fried egg?”

“Sure,” she said, jotting that down. “And you, hun?”

She turned to look at Jack. Her eyes were an electric blue that jolted him, because they looked strangely similar to Signe’s.  

“Uh,” Jack said, skimming down the menu. “I’ll take the--#3? Pancake short stack?”

“Any sides for you?”

“Uh, no. Syrup on the side, no whipped cream. And a coffee,” he said.

“Sugar or creme?”

“Neither, thank you.”

Mark made a face.

“Black coffee? What are you, a witch?” he said.

“Well I’m certainly not a little bitch who can’t take it black,” Jack said. Next to them, the waitress blushed and giggled.

“Oh god, I’m sorry, I swear, I’m not usually like this, I’m just really hungover--” Jack started.

“He’s always like this,” Mark said, barely containing his laughter.

“No, I’m not! I’m nice, I swear, I’m just in desperate need of caffeine,” Jack finished, lamely, because Mark was totally right, he was totally like this all the time. He was totally an asshole. It was in his job description.

The waitress smiled. “Well, anyway I’ll be back with your orders in a bit. If you need anything in the meantime, gimme a holler.”

After she left, Jack pressed his forehead against his glass of ice water, faux-glaring at Mark.

“I’m not an asshole.”

Mark pressed a hand against his chest, mock-offended.

“I was just telling the truth.”

“Cock-blocking me?”

“She doesn’t deserve you if she can’t handle you at your worst,” Mark said, still snickering.

“You’re right, you’re the only one that knows all my dark sides, boo-boo.”

Mark made a kissy-face at him. “You know it, bae.”  

Jack flushed.

“Pretty sure you’re the bae, if your followers have a say in it,” Jack said.

“Are you kidding me? Have you _read_ the comments on your videos?”

“Have _you?”_ Jack said.

“Hey, listen, listen, listen, I need to scope out my competition. So sometimes if I watch a video of yours--doesn’t happen _often_ , but when it does--I’ll check out a few comments, sure. And they’re always about you being cute or handsome or the bestest sweetest green bean--”

“And you know what? They’re all correct.”

“Well...blah, blah,” Mark said.

“No good comeback?” Jack smirked.

“I’ll think of one, just give me a few minutes.”  

He’d missed this, their casual banter, teasing and ribbing each other like they’d grown up together. He’d missed _Mark_. Though they still played games together every once in a while, Mark was so occupied all the time that those times were becoming fewer and further between. Everyone on the entire platform clamored to work with him, and that wasn’t even including the ridiculous companies that were asking for partnerships; Jack was just grateful that he even got the light of day from Mark.

From across the table, Mark was grinning at him like a damn fool too, just looking at him. The sight sent a warm flutter through Jack’s stomach.  

“What’d you think of the con last night?”

“Every year there are just more and more people,” Jack said.

“Yeah, and the new fans that subscribe aren’t any older. Like, every time I meet new fans, they’re all in their teens. It’s kinda weird having an army of 14 year olds come up to you. I feel like maybe I should tone down the profanity on my channel, so I stop corrupting the youth,” Mark said.

Jack nodded. It _was_ a little weird, being almost twice the age of some of the kids who watched his channel. Probably wasn’t a good thing, considering the fact that every single one of his videos contained swearing and insults. He tried not to think about it too much, but at conventions he had to face the music. Or the crowd, rather.

“What’s even weirder is when they come up to you and burst into tears. It’s sweet, but also it’s just so...I don’t know, too much. It’s like, imagine having a stranger come up to you in the middle of the street and just start saying your name and crying. I always feel weird about it,” Jack said. He was already awkward in his daily life, but to have someone literally burst into tears when they met him was a lot to handle. Truth be told, he still didn’t know how to handle it when fans did that.

“You kinda just gotta pat them on the back and tell them it’s okay,” Mark said, shrugging, “not much else you _can_ do. Doesn’t make it less weird though, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “Our jobs are just...fucking weird, in general.” And it _was_. Because he was alone, recording videos, and people commented and interacted but it was different seeing them in the flesh. The magnitude of people who watched him day to day, manifested, was overwhelming. He wasn’t sure if he would ever get used to it.  

Mark nodded, eyes looking somewhere over Jack’s head.

“Yessss, finally. Our food,” Mark said. Their waitress was back, carrying the serving platter on her shoulder. It dwarfed her, but she was balancing everything with impressive ease.

“Here you boys are, and your coffee,” she smiled, setting their food down as they shuffled things around to make it fit. “Anything else you need?”

“I think we’re good,” Mark said.

“Okay, well just flag me down if you need anything!”

She hadn’t left their vicinity yet when Mark unfolded his napkin in his lap and dug into his food, slicing the waffle squares neatly and dipping them in syrup.

The pancakes smelled delicious, going a long way towards making Jack actually feel hungry. But first, coffee. He took a sip--it was hot, and burnt to the point that it tasted a little like battery acid, but strong enough that Jack already felt a little more awake.

“So. I guess we’re stuck here for the next few days,”  Mark said, in between shockingly large bites of waffles. It’d been ten minutes and he was already nearly halfway through his waffle. Jack had barely finished his first pancake.

Jack tipped a little more syrup onto his stack. He knew he needed to eat to cure the rest of the hangover, but he was a slow eater, and was still fighting a little bit of nausea from the hangover. Even on regular days, he didn’t eat much.  

“Yeah, my mam isn’t gonna be happy about it,” Jack said, fastidiously cutting up his pancake. It wasn’t that he disliked being home for the holidays, he just hadn’t had a reason to the past few years, being in Brighton.      

“Any New Years plans with your family? Or Amy’s?” Jack said, changing the subject. He didn’t want to dwell on Brighton, and Signe. Thinking about it all still made him ache. Somehow, it was almost worse that their relationship had gone out the way it did--with silence, and distance, their final days heavy with things they didn’t know how to say. No dramatic fights, no screaming matches. Just a slow, painful fade as they grew apart, the way sometimes flowers wilt and die for no reason.

Mark swallowed, and didn’t meet Jack’s gaze when he responded with a simple “nah. No plans.”

_Huh._

Amy was noticeably absent from con this time around. Jack hadn’t asked, because he figured she was busy. She usually travelled with Mark wherever he went, a perpetual ball of sunshine at his side. Sometimes, it was almost overwhelming how cute they were, like their combined happiness could single handedly make the world a better place.

Jack didn’t see how anyone in their right mind could dislike Amy. Hating her was impossible, like hating kittens, or rainbows.

Jack didn’t push. He didn’t really need to. It was all written there in Mark’s expression. Mark had never been good at hiding his emotions. Now that Jack thought about it, it’d been a while since he’d seen Mark post any photos of himself with Amy.

Jack wasn’t sure how to feel. He felt guilty for feeling anything but sad. He genuinely liked Amy, and not just because she was with Mark. She was a really cool girl. And anyway, Mark hadn’t elaborated on what _no plans_ meant. Maybe they weren’t broken up, just going through a rough patch. _Hush, asshole. Stop being a dick and speculating like a prying fangirl._

“So it’s just you and me then, pal,” Jack said, changing the subject before he could dwell on it for too long, “you and me, and a shit ton of snow, in Philly.”

“Sounds like the beginning of a bad romcom” Mark said, polishing off the last of his sausage links. It was honestly impressive, how much food he could fit into himself. Jack had no idea where it could all be going.

“Rom com of the ages. The title’ll be “Two Loud Ass YouTubers, One City.””

“That doesn’t sound like a rom com, that sounds like a porno.”

Jack choked on his coffee, spitting a little back into the cup. Mark laughed, eyes crinkling up, laughs breathy and loose and wild.

“Hey man, don’t say things you don’t mean,” Jack said. Two could play at this game of Gay Chicken.

“I’m a man of my word, you know that.”

“We’re supposed to be on vacation. No videos, no thinking about videos.” Mark raised the napkin to his lips and wiped off the shiny grease.

They polished off the rest of their meals in comfortable silence. By the time Mark had finished his hash browns and plastic cup of water, Jack was still picking away at his pancakes. As far as pancakes went, they were pretty tasty, mixed in with oat grain and some kind of hemp or flax seed, but because of that they were hearty and thick, and he could already feel the uncomfortable press of his belt digging into his waist.

Jack nodded towards Mark.

“Wanna help me finish these?”

Mark stared at him with a raised eyebrow.

“You ate one and a half pancakes. Out of four.”

“I’m not hungry anymore,” Jack said. It was a half truth. He was still a little bit hungry, but only because his brain hadn’t actually caught up with his stomach yet. He knew that if he ate any more, 20 minutes later he would be suffering for it. The effects of keeping an irregular sleep schedule (and life schedule, who was he kidding) had started to rear its head in the form of stomach issues. On a good day, he’d drink three cups of coffee for breakfast, have a piece of toast for lunch, and order out for dinner. It wasn’t healthy, but that was the cost of keeping up his hefty workload and upload schedule.

“You’re a growing boy, you need your protein.”

“I stopped growing when I was 17,” Jack said.

“Doesn't matter, you need your strong muscles,” Mark said in a goofy voice, but there was real concern there. It made Jack feel a little uncomfortable. Mark was the one that needed people to rein him in from doing stupid things, not the other way around.

“I'm fine,” Jack said, flatly. “Seriously these are super filling. Try a bite.”

“Fork me one,” Mark said, waggling his eyebrows. Jack stared at him.

“Yeah that’s right, you heard me. Fork me one,” Mark said, a glint of challenge in his eyes. God, he was even more of a little shit than Jack had thought possible. But he didn’t mean any of it. This was just Mark--the guy who made lewd suggestive jokes for a living, who occasionally joked about sucking Jack’s dick, and sometimes said “I love you” when Jack saved him from death in video games. And Jack was doing what he always did, overthinking everything and turning it into a big deal when it really wasn't.

Jack sliced a quarter of a pancake and folded it in half with his fork before offering it out to Mark. Who, instead of taking it and feeding himself like a normal damn person, leaned forward with his mouth wide open, waiting for Jack to push the fork between his lips.

_Oh god. What the fuck._

This was it. This was how Jack was going to die and disappear into the ether. Here, in this kitschy restaurant, Mark sitting across from him with his mouth wide open, those big doe eyes staring up at Jack waiting to have sticky pancake shoved into his mouth.

Jack was pretty sure he was blushing purple in the face. _What the fuck is happening._ He tentatively pushed the bit of pancake into Mark’s mouth, praying to every lord in the sky that Mark wouldn't notice the fine tremble in Jack’s hand.

“You big baby,” Jack said, though there was no heat behind it.

Mark’s closed his eyes, humming with approval. The sound did something funny to Jack. Made something in his gut go hot.

“That's a tasty pancake right there,” Mark crooned, voice low and dragged over gravel. Jack bit the insides of his cheeks to stop himself from saying anything dumb. Like _why the fuck do you make eating food so sexual_ or _your voice is more syrupy than these pancakes_ because either of those things would be utterly stupid and also he didn’t think he could say them with the correct joking tone. It would come out too serious. Shatter whatever weird fake-sexually charged rapport that they had.

“It's all yours,” Jack narrowly avoided adding _baby_ to the end of that, but it was a close call, at that.

***

When they paid the bill and tumbled back out into the cold, the snow was past their ankles, nearly halfway up their shins. It was coming down thick and fast now, the sky above darkening into a pallid grey color.

Jack huddled underneath Mark’s scarf, and the scent of him was everywhere, everywhere. It sent a strange, hot thrill through him, wearing Mark’s scarf. Like he was a part of him somehow, this stupid red and soft scarf.

“God, feels colder than it was last night, and I was pretty sure I was going to get hypothermia last night,” Mark said, pulling the hood of his jacket up over his head. His glasses were frosting at the edges from the sudden change in temperature, and the tip of his nose was reddening.

“Want this back?” Jack said, muffled from behind Mark’s scarf. Mark shook his head. “Nah, it would just get my glasses foggy again.”

They trudged on--Jack’s socks sucked at the bottom of his shoes, cold and wet.

Most of the shops down the street were closed, though their store windows were lit up bright, mannequins decked out in holiday sweaters and tiny Christmas trees on display behind the glass. It hadn’t snowed in Brighton last year, and the one year it did, it never felt like this. Jack felt like he was walking around in a Christmas movie. America, apparently, was like a movie during the holidays.

“I feel like I should hit up this store sometime before I leave and get a Nintendo Switch,” Mark said, glancing into one of the shop windows. It was a tech store, but a local one, not a giant Best Buy or Staples. The display in front had a Christmas tree made out of refurbished Xboxs and PS4s.

“That display is awesome.”

“Yeah. We walked past it last night. Remember?” Mark said.

Last night. A good chunk of which Jack didn’t remember, and the bits that he did remember, he wasn’t sure were real, or if he’d dreamt them.

“Gonna be real with you, I don’t remember like. All of last night.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw Mark start, a flit of confusion scrunching his face.

“What...what do you mean you don’t remember? Did you black out??”

“No, no,” Jack amended quickly, because Mark looked seriously freaked out. And not the fake over-the-top freak out he liked to burst into when he was recording videos, but the quiet kind of panic that made Jack worried he was actually panicking.

“I remember most of it, I think. Just not all of it. I remember…” Jack paused on the sidewalk, glancing nervously at Mark. For some reason, it felt important to get this right. Mark stopped too, looking at him seriously. Jack took a breath. Having Mark’s full attention zeroed in on him was intense. He couldn’t remember the last time Mark had looked so serious.

“I remember...we got out of the last bar. It was snowing out.”

_Hands. Mark’s warm hands wrapped around his own icy fingers. A warm breath against his neck._

“We got into a cab? Right?”

“It was an uber, but close enough,” Mark said, softly.

“Right. Uber. But it was taking forever. It got stuck in the snow. Road conditions were shitty. So...we walked back to the hotel.”

Mark looked at him, an inscrutable expression on his face.

“And that’s it?”

“And that’s it.” Because that _was_ it. Wasn’t it? All that other stuff, it was all in Jack’s mind. Something his alcohol-addled brain came up with to placate his feelings. There was no way any of that had actually been real. _There is no way I held hands with Mark while he nuzzled into my neck in the back of an uber._

Mark nodded.

“I think our hotel is just around the corner,” Mark said, quietly.

They walked the rest of the way in silence.

***

By the time he’d peeled himself out of his wet clothes, taken another shower, and flopped back onto his hotel bed, it was nearly 3pm. Jack suddenly realized that he had forgotten to tell his family not to pick him up at the airport. In a panic, he fumbled for his phone on the stand, texting his sister that his flight was cancelled. He waited a handful of minutes. No response.

He pulled up her contact on his phone and hit the Facetime button, hoping that the wifi and his cell data would last long enough for him to update her on everything.

Sitting on his bed in the hotel room, he tapped his hand against his leg impatiently as the phone blipped. And then his sister’s face popped up. Jack breathed out a sigh of relief.

“Hey you. I was literally about to drive to the airport,” Susan said.  

“Don’t. Flight’s cancelled.”

“Yeah, I just saw your text,” Susan said, unzipping her winter coat, juggling her phone with one hand while she hung it back on the hook in the closet. It was strange, seeing his childhood home in the background. The cozy yellow lights, the mid sized pine Christmas tree in the corner by the living room--the nostalgia was almost overwhelming.  

“Sorry, I should have told you earlier.”

“So, I’m going to go ahead and guess you haven’t told ma and pa yet then, right?”

Jack shook his head.

“Figured as much,” Susan said, “I don’t envy you that.”

“It’s not my fault I’m stranded.”

“No, but they’ll still be bummed. Are you at least there with someone?”

“Yeah, every flight out of Philly’s cancelled until after Christmas, at the earliest. Mark and I got breakfast this morning. We might hang out in the evening too, I dunno,” Jack said. It was strange to think about.

He and Mark were close, but despite how much they talked over the Internet, this would be the first time they’d spend an extended amount of time together, that also wasn’t jam-packed with video recording and planned activities. Since most of the town was closed, they’d have a lot of time to kill. Jack wasn’t sure how to feel about it.

“Markiplier, right? The lad you’ve got a crush on?”

Jack choked on air.

“Susan, the fuck?!”

“Hey,” Susan said, holding up a placating hand, “not judging, not hating.”

“I do _not--”_

“Hang on,” she said, motioning for him to quiet, and when she flipped her phone sideways, Jack could see his mother, in the kitchen in the other room, making her way over. She looked the same as she always did, salt and pepper hair twisted up into a tight bun on her head, apron tied sturdily around her waist. The sight sent a coarse rush of feelings through him. Though he talked to her a few times a month, it was different seeing her through the screen. More tangible, somehow. Unexpectedly, his eyes stung, and he was so homesick it felt like a stomach ache.

“Aren’t you supposed to be off to the airport, Susan? And you’re on the phone?”

“Uh. I’ll just hand you off to her,” Susan said quickly, passing her phone off to their mother. Who took one look at the screen, and frowned, eyebrows drawing together.

“Did you miss your flight, love?”

“No, there was too much snow falling. Everything’s cancelled,” Jack said, wincing as her face fell. “I’m sorry, ma.”

“And no other flights? You won’t be back for Christmas?”

“No, ma.”

She sighed again.

“Well. If there’s a church, you best be gettin’ to it before Christmas,” she said.

“I’ll try,” Jack said softly.

“I love you. Don’t forget to eat something nice on Christmas,” she said.

“Love you too. And tell pa sorry, too,” Jack said. It made him emotional, seeing his family all gathering in the house without him. It’d been years since they’d all gotten together. He hardly remembered what it was like, when they all celebrated the holidays with each other. Would they feel like strangers, the next time they gathered?  

His mother handed the phone back to Susan, who stood up and walked through the house, until she was standing in front of Jack’s old room.

“Thanks a lot,” Jack muttered. He’d been hoping that she’d be the one to tell ma and pa, though he supposed it was unfair to put that on her.  

“Well, I wasn’t about to ruin her Christmas telling her that you weren’t coming home.”

“Just play one of my videos while you guys are having dinner, the effect will be the same,” Jack said. Susan smirked as she continued walking through the small house and opened the door to his room, taking a seat on the mattress.

His room looked different than when he’d been living in it--it was his brother’s now, and while the general layout of it hadn’t changed, there were different books and knick knacks gracing the shelves, and all of his old recording equipment wasn’t there anymore. It was strange, noticing the small differences. How he had ever managed to get anything proper recorded in there, without proper lighting and setup, was beyond him.

“Anyway,” she said, “just, don’t overthink things, and have a good time in Philly, will you? Tell Mark I say hi.”

“I will.”

“And Jack?” she said, appraisingly. There was a look on her face that suggested he wasn’t about to like what she was about to say.

“I don’t like that tone,” he said. Out of all his siblings she was the closest one to him, the one who understood him sometimes better than he understood himself, the one who asked the hardest questions and called him out on his bullshit. It was something he loved about her, but dreaded because she told him things he didn’t want to hear, but needed to.

“Go easy on yourself and him, yeah? I know it’s easy to shut the doors when you’ve been hurt, but he’s a good guy.”

“I know,” Jack said, a little confused. Of course he knew Mark was a good guy. Everyone who had ever followed him knew he did charity streams every month, raised hundreds of thousands of dollars to give away, was always kind to his fans, and truly supported his community. It wasn’t new information.

She shook her head. “What I mean is...sometimes, when you see a risk worth taking, don’t hesitate.”

He nodded, hesitantly.

“I’ll talk to you later, yeah? Love you, Jacky-boy,” she said.

“You too,” he said quietly, and then hung up.

He could read between the lines of what she was saying, but he knew she was wrong. Well, she was right about Mark, and right about how Jack felt about him. But she was wrong about Jack.

Here was the thing about Mark. He was someone who wore his heart on his sleeve, whose smiles were never forced, whose laugh filled up a room, who, when his attention was on you, it was like nothing else in the entire world existed, or mattered.

Who called Jack in the middle of the night in Los Angeles, so that it would be at a good time in Brighton. Who never forgot to send Jack birthday presents (a Spiderman plushie), Christmas presents (a mini marble hand painted Septic Eye), and congratulations texts on subscriber milestones. Who wasn’t a complete disaster of a human being and could actually record and edit all of his own content, who could sing and game and play instruments and hang out with his dog and work out and look nice and be functional in a way that Jack knew he’d never be able to achieve.

And what was Jack, compared to that?

*** 

At exactly 6pm, he got a text message from Mark. The sun had set an hour or so ago, and Jack was left staring out the window of his hotel room as one by one, Christmas lights and street lamps flickered on, illuminating the falling snow in a kaleidoscope of colors.

 

**Markimoo  
**Pizza?

**Jacksepticeye  
**Haiwain, pls & thx

**Markimoo  
**Nvm

**Jacksepticeye  
**Fuk u

**Markimoo  
** U wish  
Come over & i’ll play u for it

**Jacksepticeye  
**Play?

**Markimoo  
**You’ll see…

 

Jack was already in his pajamas. But pizza. And Mark.

He pocketed his key card and headed towards the door.

***

Exactly four minutes later, Jack knocked on Mark’s hotel room door. In his pajamas. He immediately felt better when he saw that Mark was _also_ in his pajamas--the ratty sweats and holey Pokemon t-shirt again.

“Oh thank god, I thought I was going to have to change into actual clothes,” Jack said.

“You ARE wearing actual clothes,” Mark said, which technically wasn’t wrong. Jack was wearing a pair of sweatpants and a t shirt that was holey enough to compete with Mark’s Pokemon one.

Mark grinned at him, sweeping his hand in a grand gesture and stepping back from the doorway.  

“Well, welcome to my humble abode.”

“Why thank you, my good sir,” Jack said, in a silly posh accent.

Earlier in the day, he hadn’t actually had enough time to take in Mark’s room, but now that he stepped inside, he noticed a few subtle differences from his. Mark’s bed was larger than the one in his room, noticeably so. A King sized bed, so huge that it could probably fit Mark four times over with room to spare. There was also a little mini bar area with a few small bottles of beer and wine, and some expensive looking shots of alcohol on the counter, along with a bottle opener and wine glasses. This suite was obviously meant for two. A honeymoon suite.  

“Damn, dude,” Jack said, “did they give you a bigger room because you’ve got more subscribers than me or something?”

“What?? I thought our rooms were the same.”

“Nah,” Jack said, meandering over to the mini bar, running his fingers along the labels, “I mean, it’s not bigger by much, but they gave you a bigger bed and everything. And a mini bar.”

“You can take some of it to your room, if you’d like.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Jack said, “I’m just giving you shit for it. But maybe I’m a little jealous, you know. Being Irish and all. You know how important our booze is to us. It’s disappointing that they don’t have any whiskey.”

Behind him, Mark flopped onto the giant bed, where his laptop was resting on top of the rumpled covers, clicking on stuff on his screen.

“Well, how’s this. Here’s the pizza place,” Mark turned the screen around so Jack could see the order menu, “and we’re going to play a game for what type of pizza we get. Winner gets their toppings of choice”

“Play what game?”

“Your choice. Because I’m going to kick your ass no matter what you pick,” Mark said, an impish glint in his eye.

“Oh, you’re fuckin’ ON.”

“AND. I feel like we need to up the stakes,” Mark said, grinning. Because he was a little shit, and Jack kind of loved him for it.

“Go on,” Jack said, not about to be daunted by whatever punishment Mark decided on. Mark was such a goddamn slut for masochism, and this was going to no doubt end in disaster for one or the both of them.

“The loser takes a shot of the winner’s choice from the bar,” Mark said. Jack stared at him.

“Mark. Did you forget that you can’t fuckin’ drink.”

“I know I can’t fuckin’ drink. That’s why that’s the punishment. Because I’m not gonna lose, and you’re gonna be drunk off your ass,” Mark said. Smug bastard.

Jack wasn’t about to take this one on the chin.

“You’re on.”

“You can pick the game,” Mark said, confident. Like he already knew he was going to win.

Jack settled on Plague Inc. It’d been years since he played it, and he had to go back to his room to get his laptop, and the Wifi was shit, but it was worth it to see Mark’s competitive streak show itself. Like all things Mark played, he picked up the basic concept quickly with barely any instruction.

And beat Jack in his very first game.

“Eat a dick,” Mark roared, as his plague, “Penis-itis” defeated Jack’s disease “Grundlemonia.”

“Fuck you,” Jack shouted back, laughing. “Fuckin’ beginner’s luck, won’t happen again. Lightning doesn’t strike twice.”

“Actually, it does--”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jack said before Mark could spiral off into another tangent, “we’re going again. We’re going again and I’m going to beat the pants off you.”

“I mean, you don’t need to beat me to get me to take my pants off,” Mark crooned, “but sure bud. Take a shot first.”

Jack glared. “Since I’m a man of my word, I will. Call it,” he said as he climbed off the mattress and stalked over to the mini bar. None of the drinks sounded appealing, and without any food in his system the booze was going to hit him hard and fast, but he was determined. And he wasn’t about to pussy out. Jack scowled down at his options. Tequila, vodka, and gin. None of which he really enjoyed drinking.

“Vodka,” Mark crowed.

“Oh fuck you,” Jack muttered. Vodka wasn’t nearly as bad as tequila, but it was up there. It wasn’t even pleasant to drink, it was the type of shit you pounded back for the express purpose of getting drunk, the type of thing you mixed into fruity cocktails.

“Only if you want to,” Mark amended quickly. When Jack turned around with the shot in his hand, Mark was staring at him, a little concerned.

“I know you were hungover yesterday, so--”

“I ain’t no bitch,” Jack shot back, and swallowed it in one gulp. It burned all the way down like liquid fire, and he couldn’t help the way his face twisted into a grimace while Mark laughed.

“Don’t look so gleeful,” Jack warned Mark. “You’re next.”

When Jack rejoined Mark on the mattress, he was suddenly aware of how close they were. Sitting cross legged on his mattress, knees nearly touching each others’. Jack felt warm all over, from the alcohol, but also from Mark.

It was strange. Not a bad kind of strange, just different. The same way he felt at the highest point on roller coasters--exhilaration before the fall, a momentum that pulled at his entire body. Over the years, Jack had gotten used to seeing Mark through a screen, but now that he was here in the flesh sitting inches away from Jack, it felt unreal. But Mark was very much here, solid, touchable, _warm._

Mark glanced at him over the top of his computer screen, glasses sliding down his sweaty nose. On anyone else it would look 100% ridiculous, but on Mark it made him look like a dumb sexy librarian. Jack felt him warm under Mark’s stare.

Jack bit his vodka-tongue. The last thing he needed was to say something stupidly flirty. His face was quickly starting to warm thanks to the vodka, and if they didn’t start another game soon, Jack was probably going to start feeling the effects of the booze. He always got red drinking alcohol. For all the good being Irish did him, it hadn’t help raise his tolerance for drinks.

“I got them strats,” Mark said, before hitting “restart” on the game.  

The second game, he nearly beat Jack _again_.

Jack couldn’t find it within himself to be that annoyed, because in the few years he’d come to know Mark, he expected as much. Mark was fucking smart.

It was one of the things that Jack looked up to, back when he was just starting Youtube, religiously watching Mark’s hundred-thousand viewed videos as Jack struggled to hit a couple hundred subscribers. He’d had to push himself to be better and smarter, because Mark had set the bar higher for all Youtube gamers. Even now, it was obvious why Mark rose so quickly to the top of the platform. Mark hadn’t even played the game before, and already he’d managed to beat Jack. That wasn’t luck, so much as it was talent, and intelligence.  

“I’m hungry enough to call this a bust,” Jack said, after their third game hit a draw. They’d been playing for nearly an hour, and some of Jack’s appetite had actually returned, which meant Mark had to be starving. Mark had chosen gin as his shot of choice when he lost the second round, and now both of them were red in the face. It didn’t help that they were sitting on top of three layers of blankets on the bed, which was only adding to their combined body heat.

“Same,” Mark conceded, tugging at his shirt. Jack watched a bead of sweat roll from his temple down the side of his face. Mark caught him staring.

“I’ve got Asian glow, don’t I?”

“I’ve got Irish glow,” Jack countered. They grinned at each other. Jack felt that funny feeling again. The strange swoop in his stomach that usually pre-empted danger, a warning sign that meant caution, but Jack didn’t know how he could stop it. He didn’t know if he _wanted_ to stop it.

They agreed to split the toppings down the middle, with half of it pepperoni, and the other half Hawaiian. Mark insisted on paying, waving a hand at Jack when he tried to protest.

“You get the next one. Anyway, I still don’t understand why you think pineapple on pizza is acceptable.”

“Have you tried it before? It’s fuckin’ delicious,” Jack said, because it WAS. A little bit of pineapple on pizza made for the perfect combo of sweet and savory, the same reason why sweet corn on pizza was possibly God’s gift to man. 

While they waited for the pizza delivery guy to arrive, Jack flicked through the channels on the TV while Mark fiddled with the thermostat in the room, turning it down as low as it would go, which was only a whopping 68 degrees.

“Fuck,” Mark muttered, tugging at his shirt collar again. He was face flushed, hair tousled, sweat on his neck. _He looks fucked out_ . _He looks good._

“Please tell me you’re not having an allergic reaction to gin.”

“I’m not,” Mark hiccupped.

“God, are you drunk after _one shot?_ ”

“Listen...listen…” Mark said, holding up a hand.

Jack leaned forward, a hand cupped around his ear.

“Listen,” Mark said, stumbling away from the wall, nearly face planting on the mattress as he climbed on top of the mattress and crawled closer and closer and _closer_ to Jack, on all fours.

“Listen,” Mark whispered, leaning closer, until he was directly in front of Jack’s face, so close Jack could _smell_ the gin on his breath, close enough to touch.

“I’m just fun,” Mark whispered, directly into Jack’s ear and Jack felt _that_ one straight in the low part of his gut, the words curling around his spine.

Jack shoved at Mark, who fell back against the pillows, laughing.

“I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast! And it’s not _my_ fault I’m a cheap date,” Mark said, flailing to right himself. He was laying horizontally now, face next to Jack’s knee, glasses pushed askew on his face.

“No, that’s a good thing,” Jack agreed, turning his attention back to the TV so he wouldn’t feel compelled to stare. He was pleasantly buzzed, but not buzzed enough to potentially say something stupid, something that would break whatever _this_ was. Whatever it was that allowed him and Mark to flirt and make dick jokes with each other without it going too weird.

“God, I can’t wait for pizza,” Mark muttered into the duvet. Jack nodded.

“Let’s like. Watch something while we wait,” Jack said. Mark nodded, eyes half-lidded, still red in the face from his shot of gin. Eventually, Jack stopped flipping through channels and landed on one that was playing, of all things, Krampus.

Between one yawn and the next, Jack drifted off.

***

For a moment, Mark didn’t know where he was. The bed wasn’t his, and there was music in the background. The credits were rolling, Mark realized, as he glanced blearily at the television screen. Krampus, though Mark honestly couldn’t remember anything past the first 15 minutes of the movie.

Mark winced, shifting a little, wondering if it wouldn’t be a bad idea to just fall asleep again. His temples were pounding in time with his heartbeat, and he was chilly and cramped from falling asleep in an awkward position.

Mark rubbed his eyes until he saw stars. Sometime between falling asleep and now, his glasses had gotten slightly bent out of shape. He couldn’t be assed about it--he was the worst when it came to glasses. It was a true miracle of any of them lasted more than a few months, though considering the fact that they were stranded in Philly for at least another day or two, it probably wouldn’t be good if Mark accidentally crushed them.

When he adjusted his glasses and put them back on, he noticed two things at once. The first, that his own body had decided to betray him with a boner, and the second, that Jack was fast asleep less than a foot away from him.

Mark winced and tucked himself to the side, grabbing one of the pillows on the bed as quickly as humanly possible to cover his crotch area. Well, this was fucking awkward.

Luckily, Jack was asleep on his stomach, face turned to the side and pressed into the pillow, a thin line of drool leaking from the corner of his open mouth. His soft looking hair mussed and sticking up in every direction.

In sleep, his face was completely slack, open and innocent in the dim light from the TV. He was always handsome, but like this he looked positively childlike, features tamed into something gentle and peaceful. It was all too easy to see, in that instant, how much stress Jack usually carried around with him. How much anxiety he’d been hiding for the past few months.

Something in Mark’s chest squeezed at the sight.

Jack trusted him enough to see him like this. Jack, possibly the kindest person on planet Earth, harbored enough insecurities about himself to power a small country. Jack, even with literal millions of followers, still needed to be reminded sometimes that he was enough.

For a brief moment, Mark considered shaking him awake. It’d probably be less weird than if Jack woke up and freaked out about waking up in the same bed as him, right? Mark had already resolved to not mention the night before, though the guilt of it had been weighing on him all day.

So maybe they’d overdone it a little on drinks last night.

Maybe they’d overdone it a _lot_ on drinks last night. Because apparently Jack had forgotten the part of last night where they stumbled out of BallyDoyle’s bar at 3am, arms slung around each other. Apparently he’d forgotten slipping against the snow-covered pavement and swooning into Mark’s arms like a goddamn Harlequin novel heroine, blue eyes bright, pupils blown wide and dark. The way Mark had, for just a moment, thought he wasn’t the only one who felt their hearts thump in unison. Jack had been close enough to _kiss._

On the way back, when Jack’s head lolled back against the headrest of the uber, when he’d thrown a lazy, slow wink in Mark’s direction, Mark had leaned in, pressed his cold nose against the vein right next to Jack’s adam’s apple and _inhaled._

Had Jack really forgotten all of that, or was he pretending for the sake of both of them that it’d never happened? Mark wasn’t sure which one was the worse alternative.

The truth of the matter was that he hadn’t even been that drunk last night. Tipsy, sure. Tipsy enough to know that it was a bad idea to let himself get loose around Jack? Definitely. But not tipsy enough to be brave and own up to how he felt, and now Mark knew that had been the right move. If he’d known Jack was anywhere close to black-out drunk he wouldn’t have even tried to hold his hand.

They hadn’t done anything, minus the part where Mark had honest to god _sniffed_ Jack’s neck, like some sort of horny weird succubus. Maybe it was for the best that Jack had forgotten, or chosen to forget whatever strangeness had happened between them. Mark shuddered. Would Jack think Mark was fucked up, if he remembered Mark leaning in to him, eyes glowing with desire? Mark had thought, the whole time, that maybe Jack wanted the same thing he did.

But this was easier, right? Pretending, or not remembering whatever happened between them whenever they got a little drunk. This late in the game, Jack had probably figured out the facts. Mark knew full well he was the worst at hiding emotions, and he knew it was pathetic that he was so obvious and desperate in his flirtations.

At least Jack was being a good sport about it. At least he was being _nice,_ by keeping up a guise of friendship. If the situations had been reversed, Mark’s not sure he would be so gracious. If someone he didn’t like romantically was being an annoying asshole about flirting, could he be as tolerant as Jack?

Was it bad that even now, under the blue-ish glow of the TV, and the incandescent yellow ceiling lights, Mark wanted to reach out, press his palm against Jack’s cheek and kiss his forehead? He wanted it possibly more than anything he’d ever wanted in his entire life. Forehead kisses were a dopey, dumb thing that Mark had, up until this point in his life, thought were things people only did in movies, or cheesy romance novels.

Apropos of absolutely nothing, Mark’s stomach grumbled. _The fucking pizza._ They’d forgotten about the fucking pizza. Oh god, they were such assholes.

Mark fumbled for his phone, trying to find it without also waking Jack up. It was underneath a pillow when he got it--with a notification that the delivery had been cancelled, due to bad weather. They were going to refund his credit card for it. Mark breathed out a sigh of relief. Chalk it up to another win for the weather being a blessing in disguise.

When he glanced back at Jack, he was still asleep, chest falling and rising with even breaths. Mark remembered that Jack had mentioned at some point that he wasn’t a very good sleeper. Both of them had pretty messed up sleep schedules compared to the rest of the working population, so Mark understood why every precious moment of sleep was important.

There wasn’t a pull out couch in the room, like most hotels had, but the bed was more than large enough to fit both of them, with an appropriate amount of space in between.

Mind made up, Mark got out of bed as quietly as he could and went over to the light switch, dimming it to the lowest possible setting, and turning off the TV on his way back to the bed.

He peeled back the covers on the other side of the bed and crawled under. In the darkness, Mark closed his eyes and matched his breaths to Jack’s, waiting for sleep to come. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am on [tumblr](https://haepherion.tumblr.com)
> 
> Several things:
> 
> 1\. Feel free to share this fic on tumblr/twitter/etc, but do NOT @ or tag the actual people when you post the link. I know there has been some drama in this fandom in the past, so I want to reiterate: please respect the creators' wishes/privacy. Do NOT tag them if you post links to the fic on social media.
> 
> 2\. Many of the references in this fic are facts. (Sean actually DOES like pineapple/sweet corn on pizza lol.) +10 points if you spot them.
> 
> 3\. I'm going to preemptively say that I think Amy and Signe are wonderful people, even though they are Mark & Sean's exes in the fic. Any hateful comments about them/towards them will be deleted.
> 
> 4\. There will be somewhere around two to three more chapters. It is a proven fact that comments help poor authors like me write faster. ;)
> 
> 5\. Rating may go up in the future. Check tags on subsequent chapters.
> 
> EDIT: Check out Envarchy's gorgeous fanart for this! Thank you so much!! <3


	2. Dec 24

It was warm. 

Jack kept his eyes closed, groggy in half sleep. There was a solid presence at his back. The source of the heat. He blinked blearily, squinting in the dark.

Weak, pale moonlight filtered in through the blinds. Everything was muted, a little blue and watery. Jack felt a strange deja vu again, like he was living a dream he’d forgotten. But he was warm, and comfortable, and time seemed to bend around him, measured only in quiet breaths.

In sleep, Jack had dreamt about stars. He used to gaze at them outside his bedroom window, past the twisted branches of the towering, ancient alder trees in his backyard. If he closed his eyes again, he could almost hear the wind whispering through their leaves.   

It was comforting. He almost fell back asleep--it took a moment for his brain to catch up, but when it did, Jack nearly stopped breathing.

He wasn’t in his bedroom in Ireland. He was in Mark’s hotel room. In Mark’s bed. Mark was _spooning him._

Mark’s arm was a heavy, comfortable weight around his waist. His breaths tickled the back of Jack’s neck. Jack felt every inch of Mark pressed up against him, warm and immovable, curled around his spine. The heat of their skin separated by two thin t-shirts.

_Oh God._

Jack’s throat closed up, like it used to when he was a kid before he outgrew his allergies. He was the idiot that liked to stick his nose into flowering roses and sniff with all his might, careless of the fact that he couldn’t breath.

Jack squinched his eyes back shut. If he’d somehow slipped into another dimension of reality in which Mark was cuddling him in the middle of a cold winter night in a hotel room during a snowstorm, well. Jack was perfectly fine being stuck in this alternate universe for the rest of his life.

The moment felt like it could shatter with just one wrong breath, like all things do in the witching hours of the night. Everything was quiet and alive--the humming murmur of the heater, the whoosh of water rushing through the pipes in the walls. He was hyper-aware of everything, but especially of the way Mark’s chest rose and fell with his breaths. Jack was so _alive_ , every part of him tingling and acutely aware that this was real. This was happening.

It felt like deja vu because he’d dreamt of this exact scenario happening in a dozen different ways, waking up from half-remembered dreams of warmth and Mark, always feeling empty when he realized it was all in his head.  

Jack let the seconds trickle by, heat pooled low in his stomach, spreading out into his limbs. He hadn’t noticed, before, how much he missed being close to someone like this.

It seemed melodramatic to think it, but he knew that one day he’d be forty, fifty, sixty, and he’d still ache over this exact moment where, in the soft hours of the morning, Mark held him like he was something worth keeping.

As always, he knew he was overthinking the whole situation. It wasn’t love--it was convenience. Mark was using him like a stuffed animal to replace Amy. It was normal. This was the type of thing that people did when it was dark and wintery, and they needed someone to hold close. A natural, human reaction to seek comfort at night. Mark’s subconscious brain probably thought he was holding Amy.

Because the other alternative was impossible. Mark was 100% straight as far as Jack knew. And Jack didn’t even know what his _own_ feelings were. Residual hero worship, maybe? Some misplaced sense of self? _A crush, you idiot. It’s called a crush._  

But it was impossible to think that Mark could possibly feel the same way Jack did. Mark was a natural flirt--men, women, and a corn dog, once. It was just the way he was.

Jack’s chest squeezed. He needed to leave. Now. Before Mark woke up and pushed him away.

Jack clenched, teeth grinding together, trying to drown out the sound of his brain not shutting the fuck up.

As gingerly as he could, Jack tried to squirm away. He wondered if there was any way he could sneak out of Mark’s sturdy grip around his waist without waking him up.

Jack twisted a little, and Mark’s arm tightened around him, pulled Jack in closer so that the entirety of Mark’s chest was pressed against his back. Mark snuffled quietly, resettling himself.

Jack swallowed, hoping that the sound of his thundering heartbeat wouldn’t wake Mark. Mark’s lips were so _close,_ Jack could feel the heat of Mark’s breaths against his neck.

“Stay,” Mark mumbled, the word barely above a whisper, before his breaths evened out again into slumber. Mark was dreaming about Amy, and it was _wrong_ to stay. Like Jack was intruding on something not meant for him, a vulnerable and private side of Mark that he wouldn’t want Jack to see.

With new determination, Jack squirmed, taking hold of Mark’s wrist to move his arm away. And suddenly, Mark did. As if unconscious-Mark somehow realized that the shape of his cuddle-buddy wasn’t quite right; too lean, hard lines and wiry limbs instead of soft edges and long hair.

Holding his breath, Jack slipped out from under the covers. The carpet was cold and scratchy against the bottoms of his bare feet. He shivered--without Mark, Jack was freezing, the chill of the room sinking into his skin.

In the darkness, Jack could just make out the shape of Mark, curled on his side, lips parted slightly, hair sleep-mussed and feathery. Jack tried to commit every detail to memory, drinking in the sight.

He did not reach out to touch Mark’s hair. He did not lean over to kiss Mark gently. He did not wake Mark to tell him all the things he wanted to tell him.

He checked that his room key card was still in his pocket. He swallowed the hard lump in his throat.

He opened the door, and shut it behind him with a soft _click._

 

***

 

Jack knew there wasn’t going to be sleep for him tonight. Not when he could still feel lingering warmth at his back.

It was for the best. It would have been awkward for Mark to wake up with Jack in his bed. Part of Jack was curious though--what would have happened? Would Mark have gone along with the ruse?

The hotel hallway was dead quiet--it was eerie, walking down the brightly lit hallway back to his room. Though the decor was soothing and muted, Jack felt like he was walking down a hallway in the Stanley Parable, one that stretched on into eternity. The walls seemed to narrow in, forming an endless tunnel.

His room was hollow and cold, compared to the warmth of Mark’s room. The bed looked lonely and unwelcoming. Jack briefly considered channel surfing until he fell asleep, but at this hour the only things on TV were weird infomercials and shitty reruns of soap operas from the 90s.

Recording a vlog on his phone didn’t seem like a good option at the moment, either. He was scraped raw. Anything he said right now wouldn’t be funny. He was prone to rambling on a good day; if he did a video now, he’d accidentally ramble his way into talking about Mark.

And anyway, he probably looked like a mess. His followers deserved better than to see him babble into a phone camera for twenty minutes looking like an unwashed rat.

He stood in the middle of the room, feeling lost. The wifi still sucked, so streaming or surfing the internet, his default methods of distraction, weren’t options. Without being able to bury himself into his work, he didn’t know what to do _._

Jack crawled into bed, more out of necessity to escape the chill of the room than any actual desire to sleep. The covers were cold and starchy--not for the first time, Jack wished he’d actually thought to pack some warmer pajamas. He shivered underneath the blankets, cocooning them tighter around himself. God, why was it so fucking _freezing?_

45 minutes later, Jack was still as restless as before.

_Fuck this._

It had to be nearing daylight. It was useless to stay in bed shivering. If he was going to be up this late, he was going to watch the goddamn sunrise.

It was a thing he did. Between late nights recording and editing into the small hours of the morning, Jack was used to losing track of time. It wasn’t out of the norm for him to go for days without seeing sunlight--and it hadn’t bothered him, at first. The work he did was energizing. He’d kept strange sleeping hours since he was a teenager, and never adjusted to a normal 9-5pm.

And if he was being honest, his wonky sleep schedule was good; it allowed him to play games with Mark, and Bob, and Wade.

But it didn’t mean that the irregularity didn’t catch up every once in a while.

Sometimes, he got so goddamn tired he felt unreal. Like smoke trails after a blown out candle, grey and drifting.

So he’d made it a point that on the nights he stayed up late enough for the dark to drain into morning, he was going to watch the sunrise. Seeing it rejuvenated him. Meditating on a sunrise was one of the only things that allowed the constant hum of thoughts in his mind dull to dull into something tolerable.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Jack flipped the blankets off himself, picking up yesterday’s dirty jeans and stepping back into them. They were stiff and cold, and he had to jump a few times to even pull them on, but they’d have to do.

His shoes were still a little damp, but he pushed his feet into them, grabbed his snow jacket and key card, and headed towards the elevators.

 

***

 

32 floors up, he found himself on the rooftop of the hotel overlooking nearly the entire city. Though the snow was piled past his ankles, it wasn’t as cold as he was expecting it to be. 

Jack sighed, watching his puff of breath mist and dissipate into the air. When he was a kid, he used to pretend he was smoking, pursing his lips to let it out all in one stream. He’d wanted so desperately to be as cool as his older brother Malcolm, who smoked like a chimney and seemed nearly as tall as one.

He let the cold air swirl itself into his lungs and grip him there. When it would get like this in Ireland during their long winters, his Ma said that the chill built character. That people who grew up on islands with paradise sunsets couldn’t ever appreciate the beauty fully, because they’d never braved a winter without light. How could you know what brightness meant, without darkness first? He thought maybe it was the same way with sadness. That maybe you didn’t understand happiness, until you’d felt the opposite of it, or maybe you didn’t understand love, until you’d felt loss.

The indigo sky bled into a soft lilac, the way it does during winter. Not the bright, vibrant, sunshine-y colors of summer, but the muted pastels of a world in hibernation. Light purples and golden pinks that reflected on the snow. The entire city glowed in shades of rose.

Before the sun could push through the clouds, Jack turned back towards the elevators. It was never the actual sun he cared about, but the moment of waiting--the way the sky held its breath, just before the crack of dawn.

 

***

 

Down the hallway there was a figure standing in front of the door to what Jack was pretty sure was his hotel room, knocking on the door. 

Jack’s stomach was icy with fear for just a moment, until he realized that the figure looked suspiciously like _Mark._

“Mark??” Jack hissed down the hallway. It was still early in the morning, so he didn’t want to shout and wake up the entire hallway--but what the hell was Mark doing up already? He looked disheveled in his pajamas, bleary-eyed and barefoot. Like a little boy, waiting to open Christmas presents on Christmas Eve.

Mark whipped around, shoulders sagging in relief when he saw that it was Jack.

“I was freaking out,” Mark said--and held up Jack’s cell phone. _Oh._ Jack hadn’t even noticed it was gone. Hadn’t even bothered to make sure it was in his pocket when he left Mark’s room in a panic a few hours ago. _Was it only a few hours ago? Christ._

“Oh,” Jack said, intelligently.

“Yeah, I tried to call you and heard it buzz in my room. I thought...I dunno what I thought,” Mark finished lamely. He looked sheepish, offering the phone back out to Jack, though Jack could still see a line of worry between Mark’s brows.

“Thanks,” Jack murmured, feeling bad that he’d worried Mark for no reason. He clicked the screen--he had a few dozen notifications, but otherwise no new calls or texts. And his phone was at 4% battery.

“Were you just outside?” Mark said, taking in Jack’s coat. Jack suddenly realized what a mess he was--jeans soaked through to the shins, jacket over his ratty t shirt, hair unwashed, beard growing out unevenly. He ran a hand over his chin. Yep, beard _definitely_ growing out. Hotels always provided a little razor kit and shaving cream, but they were never sharp enough, and he didn’t want to chance nicking his chin.

He was going to look like a crazy mountain man before the end of this, completely buck-naked because he was about to run out of clothes too.

“Yeah, I uh. Went to the roof to see the sunrise.” Jack said.

Mark blinked at him.

“What?” Jack said, miffed.

Mark burst into laughter, though there was no malice behind it. He was genuinely delighted. His eyes crinkled in the corners when he smiled. Jack felt himself smiling, too.

“You...you went up to the roof to see the sunrise?” Mark said, in between little huffs of laughter.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “What’s funny about that?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Mark said grinning, “I thought you’d slept-walked out of the room or something. But you were watching the _sunrise._ That’s just. It’s so _sappy_. You should have asked me to come along. I woulda joined you.”

“I’m not sappy,” Jack sniped back, feeling his cheeks flush, although he knew that wasn’t true. Most people grew out of their emo-phases when they were in college--his emo-phase seemed content to last for the rest of his life.

“You’re a sap, and it’s fine. You know why? Because sap is delicious. Like, drizzle some of that sweet tree-sap on my chest, and call me Daddy,” Mark growled.

Jack groaned, hoping that Mark would mistake the pink in his cheeks from being wind-bitten, instead of blushing. “God, really? And here I thought we were having a nice little moment.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, were we having a moment? Tell me more about the beautiful explosions of color in the sky.”

“That’s a band, you know,” Jack replied, shooing Mark to the side so he could press his key card against his door. It beeped a green light and let him in.

As much as he was content to stand in the hallway and keep talking to Mark, his damp jeans and cold shoes were starting to get really uncomfortable. Mark followed him in.  

“Is it? Never heard of them.”

“Yeah. ‘Explosions in the Sky.’ They’re great. Really moody music. Remind me to play you some of their stuff sometime,” Jack said, kicking shut the suitcase that was still on the floor of his hotel room. He contemplated sitting on his bed, but he didn’t want to get the sheets wet from his jeans, so he was left standing awkwardly in the middle of the room staring at Mark, who apparently didn’t find the situation awkward at all.

“Not related but--you know what we forgot last night? The fuckin’ pizza.”

Jack startled. “Oh fuck. Oh Lord, we forgot about the fuckin’ PIZZA!”

Mark held up a hand to placate him.

“It’s fine. I got a notification on my phone that they cancelled the order because the weather was shitty. But yeah, otherwise I woulda felt awful about it.”

“Well Jesus, you coulda lead with that!” Jack said, feeling himself go a little light-headed.

“Sorry, you’re probably right,” Mark laughed sheepishly. “But anyway, that would explain why I woke up feeling like the Tin Man.”

“...the Tin Man?”  

“Yeah. Like. You know, cold. Empty. Hollow. Hungry.”

“That’s...a really good description. I’ve never met a more heartless bastard than you,” Jack monotoned.

Mark gasped, mock-wounded.

“Hey, you said said it yourself first!” Jack said.

“But I wasn’t expecting you to _agree_ with me!”

“Well, joke’s on you.”

“Well, fuck you.”

“Is that a dare?” Mark said, voice dipping an octave lower, waggling his eyebrows.

Jack knew it was a joke--he still shivered like it wasn’t.

“Ah shit, you’re probably freezing in those jeans,” Mark said, suddenly, mistaking his shiver for being cold and not for being _affected_ by the timbre of Mark’s voice.

“Uh, a little.”

“Well, go ahead and change. I won’t peek,” Mark said, making a show of putting his hands over his eyes.

Jack didn’t know the right way to tell him that he was literally out of clothes except for his sweatpants, and he’d worn those yesterday.

“Uh. If you want me to leave, I can,” Mark said a little more seriously, when Jack made no move to do anything. Jack shook his head. _Wake up, idiot._

“Sorry, uh. Haven’t had coffee yet. Still waking up.”

“Yeah, I feel that. I’m fucking starving,” Mark said. “RIP our pizza last night. Do you think anywhere’s open today?”

Jack shrugged. “I mean, maybe some 24 hour places, but probably not much else. It’s Christmas Eve.”

“You’d be surprised. America is the land of capitalism and late night diners. I’m sure we could find some place. But anyway, I’ll leave you to get changed--”

“No, you don’t have to. It’s just, uh,” Jack rubbed his hand against the back of his neck. “I, er...kind of...ran out of clothes? Like. My other pair of jeans are dirty, and I’ve got my sweats, and that’s kind of...it.” Jack cringed the second the words were out of his mouth. God, he sounded like a little kid who had forgotten to pack underwear for an overnight school trip.

“Oh, you can borrow a pair of mine,” Mark said, without missing a beat. He glanced at Jack, giving him a once over from head to toe. Jack resisted the urge to shiver again--having Mark’s attention laser-focused on him was intimidating. Mark was usually scatterbrained and distracted, but when he focused, he was _very_ focused. Jack felt like a puzzle under his gaze--like if Mark stared for too long, he’d be able to figure out all of Jack’s secrets.

“We’re about the same height,” Mark concluded, nodding in satisfaction, “though, you’re a bit skinnier than I am, so, we’ll see how that works out.”

“Was that a dig about my twig legs,” Jack demanded. He knew he had chicken legs, but it wasn’t his fault genetics gave him legs that would make any Hollywood starlet jealous. On the plus side, he looked fantastic in skinny jeans.

“Nah, but between the two of us, you know I’m the one that’s got the thick thighs,” Mark said, smirking. It was true--in the past two years, Mark had started working out and bulking up, and the results were _showing_. He could probably crush Jack’s head with those thighs--

“Got me beat there,” Jack said.

“No witty comeback? You sure you’re okay? You’re the same Jacksepticeye and not some alien hybrid that abducted the real potty-mouth shit-talking Jack and replaced him with one that actually agrees with me, for once?” Mark poked at him, but there was an undercurrent of real concern there.

“Oh, you just like people telling you to shut the fuck up, don’t you,” Jack shot back, laying on the accent thick, just to see Mark grin. If Mark was starting to be _concerned_ , then Jack wasn’t doing a good enough job of pretending that he was fine and absolutely not feeling sorry for himself for having a big dumb crush.

“Oh yeah, spit on me and call me names,” Mark husked, voice dropping again. God, every time he fucking did that, it was like ASMR. Mark’s voice was pitched to the exact frequency of Jack’s _soul._

“Maybe if you’re a good boy,” Jack said, sultry. And they were back on ground zero.

“Well, let’s go back to my room then...for the pants.” Mark winked.

 

***

 

They decided on a bistro-fusion sort of place, the type of commercialized hole-in-the-wall spot that hipsters who read Nietzsche for fun frequented on the weekends. There was a surprising number of people there, almost all of them weary travellers who were also grounded in the city because of the storm. 

The snow had eased up sometime overnight, although the forecast said there was supposed to be another snowfall that evening. In any case, the winds were still too strong and unpredictable for any flights to take off.

Mark and Jack huddled into a booth so small that their knees knocked every time either one of them shifted.

“Let’s just--here,” Mark said, pushing one of his knees so that it was in between Jack’s legs, and one of Jack’s knees was also between Mark’s legs. Jack could feel the warmth of Mark’s thigh, even through the layers of clothes they were wearing.  

“Oh God, we’re putting a lot of trust in each other here. One of us could _very_ easily knee the other in the balls,” Jack said, 100% aware of the fact that Mark’s right knee was, quite literally, inches from his balls. He didn’t know if the heat in the pit of his stomach was from fear or exhilaration.

Mark grinned. “It’s like a trust fall, but with, you know, our sacks.”

“ _Sacks._ Please never say that word again.”

“Grundle. Is that better?”

“God, I hate you sometimes.”

“Aw, really? I thought we were each other’s babes.”

“You can be my baby, but I can still hate you.”

Their brunch this time was quicker than last, partly because they were both uncomfortable from being cramped, partly because the place was busy and their waitress ushered them throughout the whole meal, obvious that she wanted them to finish quicker so they could free up the table for the steady stream of customers.

In less than half an hour, Mark and Jack were back out in the cold. There were more people on the sidewalks today--the streets had been plowed and salted sometime in the night. Small mountains of snow were piled at the curbsides of the street. Jack had the irrational urge to jump into one of the piles; the rational side of his brain told him that was a terrible idea, considering he was out of clothes to change into.  

At least Mark’s sweats were warmer than Jack’s dirty jeans, which were currently slung over the radiator in his hotel room, airing out. Mark’s pair of black Adidas sweatpants were thick and surprisingly stylish, the type of designer material that Jack rarely bought for himself. They fit him well.

“Wait, before we go back to the hotel,” Mark said suddenly, pulling his phone out of his pocket. His knuckles were red from the cold--Jack wanted to kiss them.

“While we're out here already, would you wanna see some landmarks or something?”

“In this weather??” Jack reached for his pocket automatically, ready to pull his phone out and check how cold it actually was, only to remember that his phone was still in his hotel room charging.

“Yeah, I guess it is a little cold…” Mark admitted, sniffling a bit. He'd once again made Jack take his red scarf, insisting that he didn’t need it for himself, even though Jack had warned him that if he got sick, his followers would never let him hear the end of it.

“No no, I mean, we can go. I just. Here,” Jack said, unlooping the scarf from his neck and handing it back to Mark. “We’ll switch off. It’ll be like. I don’t know, Sisterhood of the Travelling Scarf or something.”

“Wow, we’re at _that_ level now, huh?” Mark laughed, taking the scarf and winding it around his neck. In the pale light of day, the contrast between his black hair and red scarf made Mark look like he’d just walked directly out of an Instagram photo. Jack’s brain couldn’t quite comprehend how one person could look so good.  

“What level?”

“Sisterhood level. Reserved only for best buds, right?”

“Right,” Jack said, swallowing hard past the scratch in his throat. _Buds_. Friends. Pals. _Nothing to see here, just dudes being dudes._

“C’mon, let’s see if we can hail a cab.”

 

***

 

A short cab ride and a two block walk later, Jack found himself standing in clearing with a path leading up to what looked like a museum and monument. Mark refused to tell him where exactly they were going, only that he thought Jack would find it interesting. 

The snow around the monument was fresh and untouched--they were the only ones there. Flurries drifted silently around them as they approached the monument, their feet crunching against the icy ground. The trees around them were heavy with snow, their trunks dusted white. Jack could only imagine how pretty this place was during the spring when flowers bloomed everywhere, when entire days passed like molasses, slow and golden.

“There is it,” Mark breathed, breaths frosting in the air. The tip of his nose and his cheeks were rosy from the cold, eyes a little watery too. Jack tore his eyes away from Mark’s face to look where he was pointing--at the monument in front of them, set upon a pedestal about 12 feet high.

The figures of the monument were covered in snow, clutching on to each other for dear life. Gazing out into the distance with harried, determined expressions.

“Hang on, lemme pull up the info about it on my phone,” Mark said, typing and scrolling on his phone while Jack read the plaque.

“The Irish Monument?” Jack said.

“Here's the blurb,” Mark said, handing his phone to Jack. 

> _The monument’s flow depicts the starvation in Ireland, the people embarking for America and then the immigrants stepping onto American shores. The east end, suggesting a landscape, portrays the misery of the Irish Starvation. In contrast, the higher end, suggesting a ship, faces west as anxious immigrants dock in America and a number of figures rush forward in anticipation, full of hope and looking to the future of freedom and opportunity._

“Huh…” Jack murmured, handing the phone back to Mark.  

It felt poignant, in a way Jack didn't know how to voice. These people fled Ireland, fled the famine that nearly destroyed the country, to come here. Standing underneath their bronzed faces, forever frozen in time, Jack felt a quiet kinship, and respect. He would never know the pain that those people went through, but something about it stuck with him. They were present, their sorrow something palpable even now.

Jack held up a hand, skimming his fingers lightly down the plaque. Out of the corner of his eye he knew Mark was watching him, gauging his reaction. Somehow, it didn't bother him that Mark was seeing him vulnerable like this. It was okay to share this moment.

Jack thought about the stoic ways the Irish bottled up their grief and suffering--through drink, through bursts of anger, through zipping their emotions tight inside their chests. He thought about his grandmother’s death, the way his mother’s eyes had been dry the entire time, the way his father had stood like a statue, face unreadable.

But he’d heard his mother crying to herself that night, alone in the kitchen in the early hours of the morning. Jack had wanted to come out of his room, say something to his mother, comfort her in some way, but he didn’t know how. He’d never been taught. He hadn’t known how to be anything other than quiet and still when he suffered, until he’d found YouTube.

Jack thought about the way Mark expressed his emotions so easily, how he was one of the first gamers on Youtube to cry and get emotional playing through games, amidst a sea of shitty male gamers who thought themselves above all that.

Jack thought about the way that Mark changed him, as a gamer, as a person. Allowed him to be someone who wasn’t scared to laugh, to cry, to smile, to sob. How Jack had started his own Youtube channel as an outlet for him to let out bursts of emotion, because Mark had been there to pave the way first.

“Thank you,” Jack said quietly, “for bringing me here.”

“Of course,” Mark said, a small, warm smile on his face. Jack wanted to tell him _everything,_ and yet somehow, he still couldn’t find the words. Jack swallowed. Maybe someday he would.

They stayed for another few moments, before Jack turned to leave, and Mark followed quietly on his heel.

 

***

 

The afternoon was shaping up nicely, warming up enough that even though the sidewalks were still snowy, the actual temperature was more tolerable. It no longer hurt to breathe, at least. The sky above them was a hazy periwinkle, endless and soft. 

They’d mostly been quiet on the walk back. Neither of them needed to fill up the quiet with chatter--Jack found it nice. They walked side by side, just peaceful in each others’ company.

Usually Mark was a chatterbox, but Jack liked this version of Mark too--the quiet, smart, introspective man he was when there weren’t cameras and crowds vying for his attention. And Jack didn’t take any of it for granted. Not everyone got to see this side of Mark, and he was grateful that Mark was sharing this part of himself.  

For the first time in a long time, Jack was content to just _be._

 

***

 

When they were a block away from the hotel, Mark began unlooping his scarf. 

“You’re going to give that to me _now?_ We’re only a block away, dude,” Jack said, though of course he wasn’t about to decline it.

“Yeah, it’s, uh, gettin’ a little warm for me,” Mark said, smiling wide, a hint of impishness tucked away as he looped it around Jack’s neck--

\--and it was _freezing._ Mark had fucking hid snow in one of the folds of the scarf.

“Oh, you fucker!” Jack yelled, digging his hand underneath his shirt to try and get the snow out of it as Mark cackled.

“Oh, you’re gonna fucking pay for that,” Jack said, bending down and scooping up a handful of snow to toss haphazardly into Mark’s face.

“Hey no fair, I’ve got glasses!” Mark laughed, ducking behind a lamp pole--half of the snowball got him anyway, square in the chest.

Jack ducked behind the closest thing he could find--a metal newsstand--scooping up some fresh snow and lobbing it over his head, not even looking at where he was throwing it.

Jack flinched back when he heard a _thunk_ , the sound of a snowball hitting the newsstand he was hiding behind.

“Eat THIS!” Jack yelled, tossing another snowball.

“Okay, okay, okay, I call truce!” Mark called, from somewhere to Jack’s left. He still couldn’t see Mark, though his voice sounded close.

“You started it, and I’m gonna end it!” Jack yelled out.

“No no no, we’re calling a truce, we’re calling it--” Mark stepped out from where he was hiding, hands in the air. “Truce?”

“Sure...but just one last one, for luck,” Jack said, tossing a snowball at Mark, who just barely managed to dodge it--some of the snow hit the brick wall behind him, sprinkling him in a healthy shower of snow.

“Yeah, I deserved that one,” Mark said ruefully, tousling his hair to get the worst of it out.

Jack grinned. “Shoulda known you’d never win a snowball fight against me. What’s that line from Batman? That Bane says. ‘You merely adopted the darkness.’ That’s me, but with the snow. I was born in it. Almost literally.”  

“‘Almost literally?’ The hell is that supposed to mean.”

“I was born in February. The entirety of Ireland was covered in snow. C’mon, don’t you know my birthday by heart?”

“Do you know mine?”

“Uh....March? Maybe? You seem like you could be an Aries.”  

“June, baby. I was born in the sun. In Hawaii.”

Jack glanced at him, considering. He thought about the way that Mark glowed when he smiled, the way he could make an entire room of thousands of people laugh, the way that light seemed to pour out of every part of him.

“Yeah. You were born in the sun.”

***

They stopped at a convenience store across the street from the hotel. Sometime in the last five minutes, Mark had discovered that Jack had never had alcoholic girl scout shots aka peppermint schnapps and chocolate syrup, which apparently was complete blasphemy and needed to be rectified immediately.

“Please tell me you’ve had thin mints before, at least?!” Mark said, horrified. He power-walked up and down the aisles like a soccer mom hunting for Gatorade.  

“Mark, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Girl Scouts aren’t...really a thing where I’m from. I mean. In Ireland, you’d have to hike up a hill through a field of sheep shit before you could get to your neighbor’s house.”

Mark looked at him with an expression Jack had only ever seen on his face when playing horror games.

“Have you ever had black pudding?!!” Jack countered, “Because I bet you guys don’t see that in fuckin’ Cincinatti.”

“Of COURSE I’ve had black pudding, I’m fucking German!”

“Okay, well...we should get some actual food while we’re in here,” Jack muttered, wandering over to the frozen foods aisle while Mark continued his peppermint schnapps crusade.

The freezer selection consisted of various brands of frozen pizza, chicken wings, and ice cream. Which was a problem, considering that there wasn’t an oven in their suite. Most takeout places probably wouldn’t be able to deliver--there was supposed to be more snow in a few hours.

Jack was about to go find Mark and ask him what he thought when the man himself turned around the corner and shuffled up to Jack, arms laden down with a bottle of peppermint schnapps, chocolate syrup, and three boxes of generic brand chocolate wafers. He handed the boxes to Jack.

“Mark...do you _seriously_ think that we’re going to be able to get through an entire fifth of schnapps in _one night._ " 

“Buddy, I’ve gotten through a fifth by _myself_ before,” Mark said, somewhat wistfully. “We’re going to be able to handle this, no problem. And if we don’t, I’m sure the hotel staff would appreciate a little pick-me-up, you know what I’m saying?” 

Jack rolled his eyes. “As someone who literally got a degree in hotel management, I’m telling you right now that nobody would ever do that.”

“What?! You’re telling me that given the chance, you would turn down a free bottle of alcohol?”

“I mean if it’s been opened, who knows what’s been put into that shit.”

“What kind of shit would someone put into alcohol? It’s _alcohol_. It’ll sterilize whatever you put in it!”

“I don’t know, drugs!”

“Do you think Americans are just out here spiking drinks all the time??”

“I mean, if Gossip Girl has taught me anything, it’s that you can’t trust a drink.”

Mark stared at him.

“Gossip girl,” Mark said.

“It was a JOKE,” Jack said.

“Nope, no, it’s too late, no take backsies, that’s going on Twitter. I’m going to write: ‘Dont ever trust a drink. xoxoJack.’”

“Oh, you wouldn’t fucking dare,” Jack growled.

“I do dare, and that is definitely going on Twitter. Who’s your favorite character? Are you a Blaire type of gal or a Serena type of gal? I feel like you’d be a Blaire. You know, sort of edgy but with good intentions.”

“Okay, how the fuck would YOU know if you don’t watch the show??”

“Listen, when the show was airing, my girlfriend at the time made me watch it with her.”

“Oh sure, pull out the old girlfriend excuse.”

“Okay, so maybe I watched a little of it on my own,” Mark conceded. “But hey, what the hell is wrong with a grown ass man watching some rich people in New York bitch about their lives?”

Jack sighed. “Please love yourself Mark, and watch some better TV.”

 

***

 

Jack couldn’t remember the last time he’d had Pizza Hut, but it was shockingly tolerable. Great, even. The sort of thick, oily heartiness that he wasn’t used to getting in Europe, where slices of pizzas were slimmer than tissue paper. 

Mark insisted on getting cheesy stuffed-crust, which, the more Jack thought about it, was so truly insane and so quintessentially American that it somehow made sense. Of course having cheese on top the pizza wasn’t enough--the cheese also had to be _in_ the pizza, for some damn reason. But it was delicious, and exactly what he needed after a day of legging it in the snow.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Mark polish off his third slice of pizza and lick grease off his fingers. He had really nice fingers, and hands that were solid and square and sturdy.

Jack tore his eyes away to look back down at his slice of pizza. _Quit staring, you fuckin’ moron._

They were on the roof of the hotel, watching as the sky melted from light blue to pink and golden orange--silhouetted by the setting sun, Mark glowed, his skin radiant despite the wintery gray around them. Jack wasn’t an artist, but suddenly he wished he was. He wanted to draw the way Mark’s dark hair shined in the light, glossy and thick. He wanted to draw the funny little smile riding on the corners of Mark’s lips, he wanted to draw the way Mark’s cheeks flushed pink in the cold.

Jack smiled, wiping his hands against one of the napkins before pulling out his phone, finally charged again, from his pocket.

“Smile,” Jack said, and the second Mark turned to face him Jack snapped a pic. Mark still had fingers in his mouth, his eyes startled and wide, hair tousled in every direction, flecks of snow in his dark curls. Jack wanted to kiss him so bad it _hurt_.

“Nice. New Twitter pic,” Jack said.

“Oh no you don’t, lemme see it,” Mark demanded. Jack giggled, turning the photo around to show him. Mark squinted at the screen.

“Delete that shit,” Mark said, “I look like a fucking toddler sucking my fingers.”

“Retribution, for the Gossip Girl post.”

“I haven’t even posted that yet!”

“Good. If you don’t post that, then I won’t post this. Deal?”

“Hell yeah, deal,” Mark said, sticking out a hand. Jack made a show of fake-spitting into his palm before clasping hands with Mark. Mark made a face, wiping his hand against his leg.

Jack was quietly relieved. He didn’t want to share this photo with the internet, anyway. Jack wanted this photo of Mark--giggling, wild-haired, greasy-pizza-fingered-Mark--all to himself.

 

***

 

“So here’s how you gotta do it,” Mark said. 

There were two shot glasses lined up on the mini-bar of Mark’s room, both filled to the brim with clear peppermint schnapps. He’d had more to drink in the past few days than he’d had in the past year. It was probably a bad idea to get this sloshed around Mark, but he couldn’t help it. Liquid courage, and all that--being drunk around Mark made it easier to flirt with him and not think too hard about what he was doing. It let him be touchier without feeling as self-conscious.

“First, get on your knees,” Mark said.

“Oh Daddy, you don’t have to ask me twice,” Jack smarmed.

And for the first time all week, Mark actually honest-to-God _blushed_.

“Eager much?”

“I’m starting to think that this was your plan all along,” Jack said, from the floor. The carpeting under his knees was thin--he could feel the hardwood grinding against his joints. He sat back on his heels to ease some of the pressure.

Mark was, luckily, standing an appropriate distance away where it didn’t feel too awkward. Because there wasn’t any mistaking the implication.

“You caught me,” Mark said, turning around to grab the chocolate Hershey’s syrup in one hand, and the shot glass in the other. “This was all an end-game to get you on your knees.”

“You coulda just asked nicely.”

“Well shucks, now I’ll know for the future,” Mark said, cheeks still pink. Jack cackled.

“You gonna tell me how to do it, or what?”

“Ok, so you’re gonna wanna tip your head back. And uh. I’ll dump this shot into your mouth, but don’t swallow it.”

“That’s what he said,” Jack smirked.

“That _is_ what he said,” Mark laughed. “But yeah, you’re just gonna kinda...hold it in your mouth. And then I’m gonna squirt some of _this,”_ Mark held up the chocolate syrup, “into your mouth--yes, I know that’s what she said--and you’re gonna swallow them both at the same time. And it’ll taste really good.”

“That’s what he said,” Jack crowed.

“That’s what _you’re_ gonna say after you do this.”

“Is it?” Jack said.

“I know you’ve got a sweet tooth. You talk about cookies and cake all the time, your fans have made it into a goddamn meme.”

Mark approached, until he was standing over Jack. Jack had to peer up to look at Mark’s face. This angle was...well, it was _something_ alright.

Jack closed his eyes and tipped his head back, so Mark could pour the shot into his mouth. The burn of alcohol filled his mouth immediately, making his eyes water. He took a deep breath through his nose, the singe of alcohol burning his senses. The peppermint made it feel like he was breathing ice.

He heard the sharp _pop_ of the cap on the syrup, and he smelled more than felt the chocolate drip into his open mouth.

“Okay, now. Uh. Swallow?” Mark said. Jack nearly choked.

The peppermint of the schnapps was bright and minty, and paired with the chocolate sauce it genuinely tasted like a York’s peppermint patty. Jack winced as he swallowed, feeling the burn all the way down his throat.

“And?” Mark said, face slightly flushed. Jack blinked up at him.

“Tastes like a peppermint patty,” Jack replied around a burp. Mark was right--it _was_ pretty damn good, once the acrid taste of alcohol burned away and the only thing left was sweetness. Jack clambered back to his feet and nearly stumbled--Mark caught his elbow, steadying him.

“Whoa, you okay?”

“Yeah,” Jack said, taking a breath as blood rushed up into his head and back down, waiting while his vision returned to normal. “Just got a little light headed is all.”

“And you call _me_ a lightweight,” Mark chuckled, letting go of Jack’s elbow once he was sure he wasn’t about to fall over. Jack immediately missed the steadying press of Mark’s fingers against his arm.

Mark was still close, holding the empty shot glass and chocolate syrup. Jack had never noticed the freckles on his chin before, or the way that he cocked his eyebrow whenever he was amused. Which he was doing, right then.

“I’m not a lightweight, I’m a strong boy,” Jack said.

“Mmmmhhhmm….sure,” Mark said.

“I AM! I’m Stronk as FUCK,” Jack flexed.

Mark rolled his eyes. “I’ll be the judge of that. But do me, first.”

“Ex-fucking-scuse-me?” Jack stuttered.

Mark pushed the syrup into Jack’s hands, as well as the empty shot glass. “Do me.”

“Well you don’t have to be Mr. McPushy about it,” Jack said, taking the empty glass over to the counter of the mini-bar and filling it to the brim with peppermint schnapps. Some of it sloshed over the side of the glass--Jack licked the side to stop it from spilling out too much.

“Did you just _lick_ the shot glass???”

Jack flushed, face heating. “It spilled!”

“Oh my God, you just _licked_ the glass.”

“What, are you a germaphobe now?”

“No,” Mark laughed, “I just didn’t expect you to Goat Simulator the glass. It was kinda hot,” he joked.

Jack could see his own hand trembling, but no matter how hard he gripped the glass, he knew it wouldn’t stop shaking. _He_ couldn’t stop shaking. His hands always trembled when he drank any amount of alcohol, but it was worse this time because he was also nervous. Was Mark _actually_ flirting, or was he doing his usual schtick and spiel of wooing every animate and inanimate object within a 500 foot radius?

“Oh my God, what does a man have to do to get you to shut up.”

“Well, I can think of a few things,” Mark said, throwing Jack a slow wink.

“Shut up and get on your knees.” Jack said sternly, to mask the shake in his voice. If Mark kept talking, Jack would probably explode into flames on the spot. He wasn’t sure how much more he could physically blush before his brain caught on fire.

“Oh, I love a man who knows what he wants,” Mark said. He opened his mouth without Jack having to ask him, and Jack was pretty sure the image of Mark sitting pretty on his knees with his mouth open was going to be burned into his brain for the rest of eternity.

He dumped the shot into Mark’s waiting mouth and squeezed some chocolate into it--Mark swallowed like a champ and winced, hand going up to rub against his chest.

“You okay?” Jack laughed.

“Yeup...this what they meant by heart-burn? Because my heart’s burning,” Mark said, face twisted into a grimace.

“Oh god...you’re not. You’re not _actually_ about to have a heart-attack, are you???” Jack said. Because _what the fuck,_ Mark was the only person he’d ever known to actually nearly die from drinking alcohol, and that was saying something, considering Jack was Irish.

“Oh, no, I’m fine, I’m perfectly fine. Just, phew, haven’t done a shot proper in a while.”

“Jesus, don’t scare me like that,” Jack said. He was still half-convinced that Mark shouldn’t be drinking in the first place, but as long as Mark knew his own limits and was controlling them, it wouldn’t be a problem.

“Sorry,” Mark laughed, “I’m fine, don’t worry about me. I just get really warm. And cuddly. You know how some people are angry drunks? I’m like. The opposite. I’m like, a giggly, sideways, cuddly drunk.”

“You’re drunk after _one_ shot? _”_

“No, I’m just fun,” Mark said, with a hiccup.

Jack tried and failed not to think too much about that statement.

 

***

 

Midnight. 

Mark hadn’t been lying when he’d said he was a cuddly drunk. Jack remembered starting the night out on the opposite side of the bed as Mark, but now Mark’s arm was slung over Jack’s shoulders, the weight of it heavy and comforting. They were-- _cuddling_ , Jack’s brain vaguely supplied, though that couldn’t be the right word for it. They were being comfortable. And drunk-Mark’s version of comfortable just so happened to involve having his arm around Jack’s shoulder. And it also just so happened to involve Jack being pressed as close to physically possible against Mark, nestled into his side, head pillowed on him.

Jack’s brain was tingly, the sheets on Mark’s hotel bed fuzzy and soft. Mark was fuzzy and soft too, face red from drinking, eyes a little unfocused as he stared at the TV screen. Jack wanted to touch Mark’s hair, wanted to wind the black strands around his fingers and comb through the silky locks.

The room was bathed in blue from the TV. At some point, they’d both decided they were too drunk and the bright lights were hurting their eyes, and so they’d turned them off. Somewhere between then and now, they’d powered through Home Alone and Elf and were about to start watching the How the Grinch Stole Christmas, which, Jack had learned, was one of Mark’s favorite Christmas movies. 

Jack was warm and a little sleepy and a lot drunk. They were three quarters of the way done with the bottle of schnapps and halfway through the chocolate syrup, both bottles uncapped and balanced precariously close to the edge of the nightstand next to Mark. Jack felt the way he did on long roadtrips sometimes, staring out the window watching the landscape fly by at 110km/hr, everything blurry and beautiful.

Jack had to admit--the alcohol had gone quicker than he thought it would. With the added buffer of pizza, he hadn’t felt drunk earlier, so he’d kept drinking, and now it was hitting him all at once.

This was fine. Everything was fine. Jack’s drunk brain was a butterfly, flitting from thought to thought without stopping too long on anything. Which meant he couldn’t think too hard about Mark’s thumb tracing random patterns against his arm, and how it made Jack feel like a candle, flickers of pleasure running up and down his spine.

“The...the best line,” Mark hiccuped, “is the one about pudding. You’ve seen this movie before, right?”

Mark turned his head to look at Jack. Jack could smell the alcohol and chocolate on Mark’s breath. Their faces were so close their noses almost brushed. Jack blinked slowly. Mark’s pupils were blown wide; staring into them, Jack couldn’t quite remember what question it was that he was supposed to answer.

“What?” Jack mumbled.

“The,” Mark waved the arm that wasn’t slung over Jack’s shoulder in a broad gesture, nearly tipping them to the side. Jack clutched on to Mark so that he wouldn’t topple them both. Mark’s chest was solid underneath Jack’s hand--Jack felt something spike inside him, a strange thrill that made his gut go hot.

“The...the movie. Puddin’.”

“Are you callin’ me ‘Puddin’?” Jack said.

“Maybe...pud-ding. Pud-ding,” Mark said, exaggerating his vowels. His mouth made funny shapes. Jack giggled.

“Oh god, you’re soooo drunk.”

“I’m _not,”_ Mark insisted, followed by an unmistakable drunk burp that he tried to swallow. “I’m. I just. Have an accent. When I get drunk. Don’t make fun of me! I’m a yee-haw.”

“I don’t know too m-much about ‘Merica,” Jack slurred, “but...pretty sure Ohio does _not_ count as yee-haw.”

“I’m a YEEEEE-haw,” Mark said, laughing, throaty and deep. Jack felt like he was drifting, his brain floating into the air, light and bubbly and happy. “There’s a line. ‘Bout puddin’ not bein’ puddin’. Best line in all of cinema.”

“Doubt that,” Jack said.

“Oh yeah? Whattya think’s the...the best line, then?”

“In _all_ of cinema?”

“In allllll of cinema,” Mark said, solemnly.

Jack breathed out a sigh--thinking.

Mark giggled. “You look funny when you, when you bite your lip like that.”

Jack hadn’t even noticed he’d been doing that. He licked his lips--they were a little chapped, and tasted like boozy chocolate. When he looked up, he caught Mark staring, eyes dark, full of liquid heat. Jack sucked in a breath.

“M...maybe, uhm…” Jack mumbled. His brain was static and the only thing that made any sort of sense at that moment was Mark’s lips, his soft eyes, the sweat-curled strands of hair that stuck to his forehead.

“Um…” Jack said. His heartbeat was in his throat, and Mark’s lips were _right there_ , pink and parted slightly. He was staring at Mark, and Mark was staring right back.

Jack could hear the roar and rush of blood in his eardrums. Both of them were standing on the precipice of something huge.

“Can I…” Mark choked, his voice breathless and strangled. “Do you…?”

One second stretched on into eternity.

And maybe it was Jack who moved first, or maybe it was Mark, or maybe it was the two of them willed together by the cosmic force of the universe--Jack closed his eyes and Mark’s lips were on his.

It wasn’t finessed, or controlled--their noses bumped, the angle all wrong, teeth clacking in haste and drunken awkwardness. But then Mark took a shuddering breath, and angled his face just a little so their noses aligned, and their lips slid open against each other’s, wet and wanting and _slow_. Mark’s mouth tasted sweet and minty, alcohol still on his breath as they kissed deep.

Jack groaned into the kiss, the sound rising from somewhere deep and animalistic in his chest.

“Fuck,” Mark whispered against his lips. Jack pushed his tongue into Mark’s mouth hungrily, shuddering as Mark wrapped his lips around Jack’s tongue and _sucked_ , like he wanted to swallow Jack whole. Jack felt heat curl in his belly, and race out like fire into his limbs.

Reflexively, Jack swayed into Mark, one hand moving to tangle itself into Mark’s hair, _finally,_ wind the sweaty curls around his fingers and tug to get Mark to gasp, open his mouth so Jack could lick into it, so Jack could pull Mark’s bottom lip between his teeth and bite gently, enough to make Mark tremble and make small breathy noises, half-formed whimpers of _please_ and _Jack_ and _yes._

One of Mark’s strong hands came up to cup Jack’s jaw, the other roaming over the expanse of Jack’s back where his shirt had ridden up. Wherever Mark’s hand touched was fire, leaving behind trails of heat along Jack’s bare skin, and Jack wanted more, and more, and _more._

Even as they slowed to breathe, panting into each other’s mouths, Mark was touching him, steady and languid, like he couldn’t get enough, like he could do this forever, like they had all the time in the fucking world. Mark flicked his tongue against Jack’s lip, teasing, and Jack felt a breath away from flying apart; the only thing keeping him grounded was Mark’s arms around him. The two of them drunk and craving each other too desperately for anything else but the slide of their tongues and the press of their bodies to make sense.

Mark kissed like he was trying to suck the breath out of Jack’s lungs, like Jack’s mouth held the answers to every question he’d ever asked. Mark kissed the way he talked--thoughtful and playful and quick, never stopping for long enough for Jack to catch his breath. Jack didn’t _want_ to catch his breath.

Jack thought that before this moment, maybe he’d been kissing wrong all his life. The way Mark kissed was thunder, electric and breathtaking and unshakeable all at once. One kiss rolling into the next, into the next, until the taste of Mark was all he knew.

When they broke apart for air Mark surged onwards, lips sliding down Jack’s jaw to his throat, to lick the salt from his skin, to nose at his Adam’s apple. Jack clung onto Mark’s shoulders for dear life, twitching as Mark nipped at his collar bone, quiet moans rumbling somewhere deep in his chest.

Part of Jack’s drunk brain still couldn’t comprehend the fact that this was _real_ , that he was here, that at least some part of Mark wanted him too _._ He was drunk on Mark and the taste of peppermint schnapps on his tongue. Jack wanted to taste every inch of him.

“C’mere,” Mark croaked, voice cracked and gravelled. He was _wrecked_. Jack had never seen him so far gone.

Jack, heavy limbs uncoordinated with drunkenness and lust, climbed into Mark’s lap and both of them startled at the sudden hard _thunk_ \--the sound of something being knocked off the nightstand and onto the floor.

“Leave it,” Mark said, voice a low growl.

“Hang on,” Jack said, because his one last functioning, rational brain cell recognized dimly that they’d just knocked over alcohol and chocolate onto the carpeting, and they were going to regret it later if they left it there. And also because he needed a second to breathe--his hands were shaking. So many things were happening at once.

“We’ll get it later.”

“Just a sec,” Jack said, turning to Mark. Jack’s breath caught in his throat. Mark looked beautiful in the dim glow from the TV--midnight-black hair tousled from Jack pushing his fingers through it, lips kiss-swollen and cherry red, pupils dark and endless and hungry. _Fuck._

Jack crawled towards the edge of the bed and flopped onto his stomach, hand reaching down to feel around on the floor for the bottle of spilled alcohol and chocolate--his fingers closing around something rectangular instead. A phone?

Jack put the phone in one hand and kept groping in the darkness with the other until his fingers found the round shape of the bottles, setting them back on the nightstand rightside up.

He wasn’t sure whose phone it was--he hit the side button to flash the lock screen. The background of it was a photo of swirling galaxies, and deep outer space. Mark’s phone. The lock screen also showed he had one missed call and three texts. All from Amy.

Amy.

It took a half-second for Jack’s brain to catch up, and then it felt like the bed was swallowing him whole. Amy, aka Mark’s maybe-ex, maybe-not-ex. Mark had never clarified whether or not they were still together, or broken up, or taking a break.

But, that wasn’t the point. The point was that seeing her name yanked the entire universe back into perspective. A universe in which two things were facts: first, that there was no way Mark could kiss Jack like that and and _not_ know how Jack felt. Which was bad because of the second reason: that there was no way they could go back to being _friends_ after this, not when Jack knew he would never be able to stop thinking about the way Mark smiled into Jack’s mouth when he kissed. Not when Jack knew that the physical distance between where they lived would make a relationship impossible, assuming Mark would even want that. Not when Jack was pretty sure that Mark had kissed him was because he was drunk and lonely and convenient _._ Jack had been desperately living off scraps of affection from Mark for years. Maybe Mark had finally sensed that.

After tonight, Mark would inevitably want to move on and forget things happened, and Jack wouldn’t be able to forget a goddamn thing _._ From here on out, the yearning would only grow. The _wanting._

“Jack?...” Mark said, from somewhere behind him. His voice sounded faraway, distant and small. Jack wanted to throw up. God he was so fucking stupid. Of course, Mark was being _kind_ to him. Mark wasn’t ever anything but kind--Jack was just stupid. He got his emotions tangled up in this, and fucked up what coulda otherwise been a perfectly good one night stand between best friends.

“I’m,” Jack croaked, the room tipping unevenly, the bed underneath him sinking. “I…”

Part of him wanted this. _Had_ wanted this for so long that his entire body felt like one big bruise, blue and aching. He could see this through, but if he did, he knew that it would fuck him up for the rest of his very long life. He wasn’t sure if he’d still be able to be friends with Mark after this, because Jack would always just think of him like _this:_ drunk and kiss-dazed and so fucking beautiful.

“Are you okay?” Mark said, concerned.

Jack swallowed, mouth sour. He couldn’t even look in Mark’s direction.

“Your phone,” Jack croaked, setting the phone down somewhere behind him.

“Oh...thanks?” Mark said, a little strangely. He didn’t make a move to look at it.

“Yeah, no problem.” Jack scooched back to where Mark was sitting, back against the headboard. In the dim glow of the room, he looked so lovely that Jack felt a nameless feeling in him swell, like the pull of the sea to the moon.

Mark leaned forward and pulled him in, pressing his lips gently to Jack’s--who let himself be kissed.

Mark pulled back immediately, concern furrowing his brow. He always had an uncanny way of being able to sense when things weren’t right.

“Jack...what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Jack lied. It sounded strained even to his own ears. _What the fuck are you doing?_ He wanted this. He’d wanted this for so long, for _years_ , and now that it was happening he felt like shards of stained glass, delicate and disjointed.

Mark looked at him with an expression that Jack suddenly realized was _hurt._

“You don’t want this,” Mark said quietly. Not a question, but a statement.

“No, I _do,_ ” Jack insisted.

Mark let go of Jack, and leaned back against the headboard.

“Jack, you’re...you’re tense. You don’t have to push yourself. I’m not gonna make you do something you don’t want to.”

Jack swallowed, his mouth full of cotton. He wanted Mark so _bad,_ but now he’d gone and fucked it up. It was one of those horrible “would you rather” scenarios, played out in real life. _“Would you rather: get together with the person you love for one night and risk losing a friendship, or would you rather be friends forever but never get to love them?”_  

“That’s not it. I...I just. Don’t feel so good,” Jack gasped suddenly, his stomach curdling in his gut.

His legs wobbled underneath him as he clambered to his feet, beelining for the bathroom.

“Jack!” Mark called after him.

Jack stumbled his way to the bathroom and slammed the door behind him, dropping to his knees in front of the toilet, dry heaving. His stomach valiantly tried to turn itself inside-out, but nothing came up, just bile. The harsh lights of the bathroom reflected off every surface, stark and assaulting after the dim coziness of the main bedroom.

He spat into the toilet, shuddering, ears ringing loudly in the silence of the room. He pressed the side of his face against the cool porcelain. It felt nice against his heated skin. The tiles of the bathroom were hard on his knees so he slumped down until he was sitting, feeling dizzy and nauseous. He stared at his hands, which were still gripping the toilet seat. They felt disconnected from the rest of him.

_Let go._

His hands let go.  

Jack squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe if he just fell asleep, he’d wake up and realize it was all a dream. He’d wake up and it would be yesterday, and he’d have another shot at this. He’d _really_ like another shot at this. But it probably wouldn’t change much. Given the chance, he’d make the same mistakes all over again.

A knock at the bathroom door.

“Jack?...”Mark said, quiet and muffled behind the door, “are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Jack managed, wincing at the crack in his voice. God he was such a fucking _mess._

“Can I come in?” Mark said gently.

Jack didn’t say anything.

This was a--a SNAFU. A Situation Normal: All Fucked Up. Jack would even say it was a SNA-FUBR. A Situation Normal: All Fucked Up Beyond Repair.

Because.

Because, he’d been in love with Mark, for quite some time now.

Some part of him had known. He’d been doomed since Mark made kissy noises at him the first time they recorded together.

But Jack had assumed, up until a few hours ago at least, that it was just a harmless crush. One that would resolve itself, one that wouldn’t ever see the light of day.

The knock at the door came harder.

“Jack? Please let me in.”

“I’m fine,” Jack said.

For a long moment, there was silence.

And then.

“Okay...I’ll wait out here,” Mark said quietly.

Jack wanted to weep. Mark was so _nice_ to him, and he didn’t deserve fucking any of it. He was in Mark’s _bathroom_ , for god's sake, not even his own room. And Mark wasn’t angry or pushing him to open the door.

Jack spat into the toilet one more time and closed the lid, flushing it, head trying to pound its way out of his skull.

For a while he just sat there, waiting for the room to stop going fuzzy. His brain felt like one useless cotton ball, and until he was less drunk, he wasn’t going to be able to unpack whatever the hell had just happened.

All he wanted to do was curl up on the bathroom floor and fall asleep for the rest of eternity.

He slumped down onto the floor and crawled over to the door of the bathroom, pulling himself to sit with his back against the door. He imagined Mark sitting with his back against the door on the other side, both of them separated only by Jack’s stupidity and a plank of wood. 

He knew that the second he opened that door, everything would be over.

Mark would be there with his stupid charming laugh and kind eyes, and he’d apologize and say _can we pretend like this didn’t happen and just be friends_? And Jack would grin with clenched teeth and say _of course_ and pretend like he wasn’t wanting to die on the spot.   

But until that moment, Jack could sit here with the door closed and pretend.

 

***

 

Mark breathed. 

He counted his breaths, let his chest expand and deflate with each count.

His mother had taught him how to breathe around the pain, back when he’d been in the hospital with stitches in his gut, feeling like he’d been ripped in half.

_In...out. 15. In...out. 16._

He wasn’t in a hospital bed now, but the pain in his gut was there anyway.

He’d fucked up.

He’d really, really fucked up.

Distantly, he realized that it was well past midnight, which meant it was officially Christmas. And he was spending it sitting on the floor of his hotel room, feeling sorry and empty.

Jack had been in the bathroom for at least an hour now, or so it felt like. Time moved strangely--Mark blinked, and whole minutes would pass.

Mark was usually pretty good at reading people, and he’d thought the way that Jack looked at him, the way he’d caught Jack staring at his lips...he’d thought.

_In...out. 19. In...out. 20._

Mark bit the insides of his cheeks, teeth digging in to the soft flesh.

_In...out. 21. In...out. 22._

But it was okay if Jack just wanted to be friends.

Mark just hoped that he’d still _want_ to be friends. That he’d forgive Mark for misreading things, and they could go back to hanging out and playing video games and harmless flirting.

He could still feel the phantom press of Jack’s lips against his own. The way Jack kissed was so different than the way he was--sweet and slow, instead of boisterous and loud. He’d kissed like he meant it.

Mark shivered.

But maybe Jack was just being kind. Maybe he was trying to let Mark down easy. Or maybe Jack had thought he’d wanted it, and then changed his mind. Which was perfectly fine. Sometimes these things happened.

Mark should have been more prepared for it. He should have known that this could only end in heartbreak.  

The TV in the background was still going. The Grinch’s heart was growing three sizes. Mark thought he understood the feeling. Whenever he was with Jack, he felt the same.

_Merry Christmas_.

Mark leaned his head back against the wall and breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Thank you guys so much for being patient and encouraging while I wrote this chapter! I've read every single one of your comments multiple times; they really motivate me to keep writing, and I appreciate all of them! <3 
> 
> 2\. Check out Envarchy's gorgeous [fanart](https://envarchy.tumblr.com/post/181774289291/some-background-practice-inspired-by-the-fic-just) for the last chapter! Also, if you'd like to see snippets/ramblings about this fic, check out my tag for it on my [tumblr](https://haepherion.tumblr.com/tagged/just%20one%20thing%20i%20need). I love it when people shout into my ask box lol.
> 
> 3\. Today (Feb 7th) is Sean's bday! Happy bday to the no-longer-Green-Bean. 
> 
> PS: For those of you that are worried about the boys, don't be. Sad endings don't exist and I am physically incapable of writing them ;)


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